


To Serve

by StormBlue



Series: The Blood Archives [1]
Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Blood Angel, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Demon, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, LGBTA+, Love Confessions, Multi, Mystery, Oral Sex, Other, Reader-Insert, Trauma, astartes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2020-12-14 10:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 80,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21014357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormBlue/pseuds/StormBlue
Summary: A slow burn slice of life series detailing a relationship between Mephiston and a blood thrall serving him. Gender of the reader purposefully left out to allow for self insertion. Originally written for a friend, but designed for everyone. Rated explicit for themes related to grief, coping, anxiety and later smut. Follows along with canon literature, written in second person.





	1. Five Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucreace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucreace/gifts).

> For anyone who wishes to get in touch with me, please feel free to follow my Twitter https://twitter.com/StormBlueStudi1
> 
> OR add me on Discord STORMY#8826

Scented ink filled your nose, eyes well acquainted with the comforting dimness of a single candle guttering warmly in the far corner. You appreciated the contrast, protecting your natural eyes from the glare of deep red ink against bright vellum. The feel of the paper, slick against your skin, was sensual even if most of your hand was sheathed in silk. What you did was delicate, important work. Transcribing, line by line, long sets of flowing script that had not seen Baal’s glaring sun in long centuries. As it should be. The darkness preserved rare pigments and kept fragile pages from crumbling. Even so, each page of the book you were carefully copying was separated by vast sheets of wax paper. The tome itself was simply massive. Not meant for or written by, human hands and was armored in gold, bronze and leather. 

You knew the original author as well. In fact, he had been the one to instruct you to transcribe his work into a newer, smaller volume. His handwriting was flawless, liquid and embellished with meanings you could barely comprehend but did your best to regardless. As Scholiast Imola’s descendant, you were allowed privileges the other blood thralls might have been jealous over. If you were around them much, that is. But you never were. Your days were dark and isolated, spent in reverent silence studying and transcribing. Page after page, word by word. Doing a task too menial and time consuming for your masters, but perfectly tedious and honored for a human. To be allowed to even view his books was an honor that made your head dizzy just thinking of it.

So you didn’t think, you just worked. Line by careful line. 

You were doing well, you decided. You might revise your penmanship later, at a later date before you bound the new volume but for now your lord’s work needed to be finished. 

Then the candle flickered. This was unusual. No breeze existed this far down in the Librarius. Someone had passed by soundlessly, sweeping the flame with a gust you didn’t even feel. You sensed him, rather than saw him. You didn’t dare actually see him. Well you had, once. His eyes were…you could not put words to what you witnessed. Instead, your quill swiftly ticked off the sentence were you on. Hands pressing to the bloodwood table, you bowed and hid your face. 

Corpse grey fingers explored your desk just outside of the tiny space of light your cupped hands allowed. He said nothing, but you could almost read him by the dance of shadows thrown off by his towering form. The Chief Librarian threw off an air of quiet authority unlike anything else and it was safe to say he terrified you. Yet there was never a threat of violence from him, only a silent judgement that was somehow both worse and…exciting. 

“You are nearly done.” He spoke. You were not used to hearing him speak. “I see you have been taking notes for a further addendum as well.”

You lifted your head enough to peer at the place your personal journal used to occupy. That was your fault, honestly. Leaving it out in the open like that. “Yes, my lord. I noticed some sentences might have other meanings.”

You felt yourself flushing red, unbidden. You weren’t technically supposed to be keeping private notes on his work, but you considered it important enough to get the correct meaning. Mephiston was a vast, unknowable character and his words reflected the hand that wrote them, sadly. It was not an easy task. Merely copying them as is, you felt, robbed them of truth. 

If Mephiston thought ill of this practice, he clearly wasn’t voicing it. Or expressing it. Ten minutes went by in long, awkward silence as he studied both your nearly finished volume and the piles of notes you kept. He could have read all of it within seconds, so the pause meant something. So what…?

“When did you begin?” He asked.

“I…” Your thoughts were shattered. Had you kept time at all? “I am…not sure, my lord.”

“Five days.” He informed you. “Since I gave you this task.”

Your face went white. Had he expected quicker progress? Had you somehow lost track of time and failed a deadline you’d forgotten about? No, impossible! You forgot nothing! Right…?

You felt eyes on you. “I did not expect this much progress. I do not need this volume finished until three days from now. You may rest for the rest of the night cycle.”

A barely perceivable breath sucked through your lips. Had he praised you? Or accused you of going too quickly? Perhaps you should say something. Thank him, but there is a knot in your diaphragm and a dryness in your throat. Mephiston placed your journal back on the table, opened to the most recent page. His finger, massive against your tiny scrawl, points out your latest notes. “It is good that you search for truth, as you do. Words are power, even for the none gifted. When you return with your finished draft, hand this completed addendum to me and I will show you more.”

Having spoken, you can tell he is finished with you. With a sigh of robes, the Chief Librarian ghosted out of the room as quickly as he arrived, scattering candle light. A strange, exotic sense of pride billows in your heart. Yet you feel like crying. Why? Perhaps it was the unusual awkwardness you felt at the idea of getting to serve him directly. Oh, most other blood thralls would kill just to have him speak directly to them, but then again you doubted they’d ever seen him either. They would not understand the weight of expectation that was suddenly dropped upon your shoulders. 

Very slowly you peeled your sweating brow off the bloodwood surface, almost gasping. The candle guttered again and for an anxious moment you thought someone else entered the chamber, but no…the candle had burned down to the base and was threatening to pitter out. Cursing, you realize it was indeed getting late. Had been late. The chronometer usually left abandoned in your inner pocket blinked red when you checked it. Accusing you of ignoring the typical rest hours allot to each thrall. You wouldn’t have long to sleep then. 

Would you sleep honestly? Not likely, you thought. Cheeks still red, you rose from the chair on time-stiffened legs. At some point you had made it a goal to keep moving and hydrated. A lot of good you’d done on that front. Had Mephiston not come to check your progress undoubtably you might well have wasted away. It was a good thing, you realize, because the moment your body began to move again the sharp ache of an empty belly and dehydrated veins became apparent. A headache blossomed in your head like claws opening up at the base of your skull. Your reward for ignoring the basic, human needs of your very human and un-augmented body. 

Mephiston had mindfully replaced a colored sheet of wax paper between the last page, marking your progress. You would have had to leave the delicate tome open otherwise for the armored cover was too sharp and heavy to lift yourself. The rest of your things were resealed and replaced in the knapsack at your side and soon sent yourself staggering down the common halls. Not a soul in sight. Again, you cursed. It was late. Very, very late. 

The halls occupied by blood thralls were not nearly as tall or sweeping as those populated by your masters, but there was a sense of elegance and duty in the simple decorations and utilitarian design. Redstone walls capped with brass and iron clearly inscribed directions and would normally be spilling hymnals from angel faced speakers, but those were silent now, too. Their faces were blank and horrible in the darkness. Doing your best to make as little noise as possible, not even the guard servitors moved to regard you as you slipped into your suite. 

Some thralls liked to make their quarters their own, to allow some measure of comfort but yours wasn’t geared towards that. The battered desk sitting at the far end was almost entirely crammed with more notes and past projects. If only so the cot stayed clear for sleeping. Otherwise any other surface you owned was rudely transformed into a writing space. It was, in truth, slightly inappropriate for a thrall of the Librarius to be this unorganized but your mind was not easily settled, even at this hour. 

After locking the cell door, you disrobed. The shock of cold air was both a relief and a hint that you might well have given yourself a fever. Draped over the back of the bent metal chair was last week’s sleeping habit. It still clung to a bit of scent, but you didn’t plan on staying in it long. After a lot of groping a switch was hit and a humming electrical lamp flickered on. The light stung your eyes for a brief moment until they adjusted. Indeed your room…definitely needed cleaning. You needed cleaning. 

“Five days.” You repeated in the same, unknowable tone your master had used. “I should be ashamed of myself.”

Crammed under the desk was a store of none perishables and a jug of slightly warm water. Your projects and studies kept you trapped in your cell for long hours so keeping at least some form of nourishment was essential. As it was in this case, because nothing was open. The ration bar tasted bitter and a gulp of water turned the dry powder to mush. Still, it eased the pain in your head and stomach enough to think. 

The weight of the work yet to be completed filled your mind with iron and your heart with nervous joy. The cot creaked under your weight as you laid down to rest, even if sleep would likely elude you tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	2. Excused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You actually do manage to sleep, but find yourself late for shared duties. While you do get excused, your task isn't without other...run-ins.

So you had fallen asleep. You realize this when you felt a dark film peeling away from your eyes. Oh, yes. Those are your eyelids, right. Nothing had changed since you passed out last night. The electric lamp still hummed noisily in its corner, the desk was still as cramped as anything and the sleeping habit smelt faintly of sweat and stress. One hand groped about, automatically reaching for the chronometer you regularly left on a side table to charge. You had forgotten to remove it from your work robes. Very likely it ran out of power. 

Hands retracting, you push ink blotted fingers against eyes and forehead, orienting yourself. That headache from last night had been chased off by the promise of food and water but returned the moment your body had enough time to wake up. It hurt. Your eyes throbbed, your throat felt raw. Sitting up made it feel like your spine was made of untreated wood, swelling with moisture. Perhaps you would have panicked and scurried for the common halls, wondering if you were late for duties, but you remembered only one thing.

“Five days.” You repeated a second time. 

Five days. You had apparently been awake for five whole days, leaving the private scriptorium for sparse food and drink. Well, perhaps not entirely awake. At some point you must have passed out and woken up, completely unawares. The idea of it was scary. Maybe a visit to the infirmary wouldn’t be a bad option, but as you start to move a little more you find your limbs had regained at least a little strength. Soreness, sure, but at least you weren’t numb and insensate. That was…something?

Finally your vision cleared enough to let you see the state of your cell. At some point last night you recalled the need to clean it and you definitely should. Without thinking too much about it, you stagger to your feet and start to collect entire sheets of fallen vellum, fanned out at the foot of your chair like a skirt of leaves. A dried out and unsealed ink well sat neglected on your desk when you ratcheted upwards to leave the collection there…yikes. You would have to make a lot of trips to replace everything, if whole bottles had been abused. 

Shame misted your eyes with tears for a moment. You should have been taking breaks, not throwing yourself into Mephiston’s task wholesale. There was likely going to be time-addled mistakes riddled throughout the draft. Maybe that was really why he had come, personally, to banish you for the rest of the night. Maybe he’d found those errors. 

Shame, shame, shame.

Still, your cell should be cleaned. The chores might actually clear your head. Eating and drinking can happen when you’re done. Nothing could truly tame the controlled chaos that dominated your cell, but the papers and reams of vellum deserved better and you had done your best to place them safely. Even your unwashed laundry got some attention, getting wheeled out of the alcove at the foot of your shrine. 

You were about to do more when you heard a rough knocking at the latch. The sound alone burst with memories. It was the sector deputy come to wake those who hadn’t reported to the common halls for prayer. Whole volumes were tumbling from your arms in a mad dash to unlock the door.

Deputy Mort was a stocky, powerful man and towered a full head and shoulders above you. His face was twisted with mild annoyance under the thick black hood of his duty robes. The staff he’d used to knock your door looked about ready to knock your head. 

“Scholiast.” He said as way of greeting.

“I…I’ll be out in a moment, deputy, I am sorry.”

He replied only with a rugged sigh, heaving the door closed long enough for you to scramble into a new day robe, semi-clean. Not appropriate for morning prayers, but it was the only one you had left.

Without consideration for rank or authority you suddenly felt inclined to explain, or explain yourself out of, trouble. The first words had just left your mouth but his scowl quickly transformed into a snarl. You shut up, bowed your head and let him lead you to the common halls for prayer. You would never shirk your prayers, but being late made you want to be anywhere else but in the chapel. As predicted, the moment the two of you padded beyond the massive carven doors you endured stares from those in the back pews. A few places were always empty, accounting for more thralls than could attend at anytime, it was the awkward shuffle scoot into one of those seats that felt like a death sentence. 

The sermon was already half way over, the droning voice emanating from below the seated figure of the Emperor began to trail off. A clatter to the front of the room was the offering dish being passed from thrall to thrall. Not that you had managed to grab anything to put in the dish today. Unless you counted lint and a few worthless pen nibs. Deputy Mort snorted at you, either amused, annoyed or both. Groaning, you hid your face as he did you a favor and mindfully intercepted the dish before it reached you. He dropped coin enough to cover for you both.

“As you were saying?” He grunted, though not unkindly. 

As people were slowly filing out of the pews, you looked up and tried to smile. “I was…um, trying to finish a task one of our masters had assigned me. I lost track of time and he sent me to my cell for the night after five days.”

Mort raised a brow. “A good enough reason to prioritize, but you still look and…smell like filth.”

“I know!”

Something of a barking laugh coughed out of his scarred throat. “Then go wash. I can overlook your tardiness for the day, I guess. No one else is gonna be happy about having to do your daily chores though.”

He waved a hand in your direction and you never scurried away faster.

It was good to feel like you were washing away the embarrassment. Thralls did not bathe so much as rub oil and sand across their skin, scrubbing away bodily secretions and dead skin. Only Astartes had the privilege of using rare, precious water to wash but your rituals were enough to feel new again. Between the chapel and the wash rooms, you had managed to eat as well. Simple porridge and a mug of water, but it did a lot to lighten your mood. You probably should have grabbed more rations from the pantries, but you felt it more appropriate to avoid people for now. Deputy Mort was kind enough to allow you an excuse from common chores, but others…they would have had something to say, especially the other scholiasts. No thrall of the Librarius was supposed to be above basic duties and while servitors could have handled a majority of it, it was the idea that was important. Breeching conduct brought to mind arrogance and while you would have much liked to avoid that accusation, there wasn’t much you could have done. Blathering out an explanation to each and every thrall who confronted you would have wasted your time. 

Returning to your cell itching and aching far less, you were eager to get back to work. Pleasingly, you noticed that a servitor was delivering your washed laundry. You waved it inside and with a burble of prayer it set your robes on the cot. Lifting the first off the pile, you huffed out your chest. The crimson fabric was soft and stitched with precious golden runes that marked you as higher than most. Enough to allow you into the higher chambers where you had access to volumes only your rank and your masters were allowed to see. 

Which is exactly where you needed to be today. Before Lord Mephiston had sent you away, you reached a point in the armored tome that required a spelling key found only in the fifth highest chamber. Your robes would get you there, but just barely. There was also several flights of stairs you had to climb and by the time you reached the ornate, gold stamped portal you were huffing and wheezing. Two servitors formed a gate of spears at the main entrance and only let you through after long moments of nervously flashing your robes at them and reciting prayers. 

Instead of meeting hard stone your feet creaked against rich black wood and marble leading up to sweeping rugs and towering bookshelves that smelt of dust and incense. Contrasted sharply against the dark wood and sterile white stone were the hulking shapes of your masters. Each was clad in gleaming azure armor, polished to a high shine and the air around them seemed to shimmer with power. Few other humans were there, but the ones who were either got to directly attend one of the Librarians or, like you, flitted quickly between rows staying out of the way. 

Trying your best not to stare at your august masters, you called a servitor over from one of the darkened alcoves. Even the servitors here were impressive. Tall, thin shapes clad in white robes and topped with expressionless masks of gold and brass. It followed you not on trudging feet, but on an anti-grav repulser that kept it silently hovering a few feet above the floor, the negative space below it entirely enveloped in cloth. You knew, by rumor, that these things weren’t exactly unarmed and a chill seeped up your spine as it followed noiselessly. The area you needed to get to was further back and after verbally entering the location into the servitor’s masked ears it sent you scurrying after it. Dodging armored forms and quick-footed thralls. 

Activity dwindled and it seems like you can get a moment of peace. This far back the tomes are older, heavier, dustier and as the servitor sweeps ahead of you a cloud of powered paper centuries old stirs. Shadows are deep and oddly comforting. The temperature dropped noticeably. At this point you can start hearing the quiet motors of the servitor. Which is why, when you finally reached the shelf you needed, you felt as if you had somehow descended into a crypt. And perhaps at some point this had been one, before the Tyranids. Now it was a soundless tomb of lost pages and texts. The both of you soon slow down and the mindless thing pauses for a long while. Then, extending an arm too long to be natural flesh, it easily plucked one of the huge tomes from the top shelf. It moaned like an old hinge as it came loose, and wrenched free a nest of small, pale spiders. Several of the pearly arachnids swarmed the pale, lifeless flesh of the thing but they go utterly ignored. It tried to hand you the oversize book but you signal it away. Despite its heavy patina of filth, it was still impressively sized and likely weighted to match. 

Burbling a staccato of code, the servitor was prepared to secret the tome away into its robes when an armored gauntlet seized its wrist. Hidden machinery within the folds of its heavy robes whined, but a sharp utterance nearly made the servitor slump over dead. Startled badly, you turn to meet the gauntlet’s owner only to immediately avert your eyes with a whimper. 

Gaius Rhacelus was old, even by Blood Angels standards and almost as high ranked as Lord Mephiston. He intimidated you almost as much, too. Before you swiftly looked away you caught sight of his face. Dark skin offset by an iron beard and the most unsettlingly blue eyes you’d ever seen. 

Daring not to speak, you waited as he yanked the tome out of the servitor’s arms and studied it with a pinched, scowling glare. “What are you doing with one of Lord Mephiston’s translations?”

“I…I need it to finish transcribing one of his…his tomes. He asked it of me.” You sputtered, making an attempt at sounding formal. 

He paused a moment, then blew a sigh from his nose. The armored tome crashed heavily against a study table off to the side. “You should have put a request in for it. Someone of higher rank would have fetched it. But…if Lord Mephiston put you to the task, I suppose bypassing the formalities was called for.”

You weren’t sure if he sounded annoyed or just mildly inconvinienced. 

He waved a hand and the servitor chattered back to life. “Relax, thrall. I would have done the same thing. The process is slow, especially for books penned by Battle Brothers.”

“Y-Yes my lord.”

He turned away and, looking up, you saw him looping a length of heavy scripture about its girth, pressing a fat disc of wax to the ends with a muttered breath. “Be along with you then. At least you won’t be stopped.”

Now he did sound annoyed and with a hiss of orders, you had the servitor collect your prize. Both you and the machine excused yourself and went flying back the way you came.


	3. Inherited Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another encounter with Mephiston leaves you with information you aren't sure you wanted to hear.

Eager to get back to work, you blew through scores of your fellow scholiasts on your way out of the Fifth Chambers. A few of your armored masters gave you warning looks, but you only just registered them before you were already several feet away. Lead by the levitating servitor, all the muscles in your legs were dedicated to catching up with it, sparing little mind for anything else. Whatever words Lord Rhacelus pumped into its head sent it flying not towards the main gates, but down a winding, secluded hallway that you swear tilted downwards at a deceptively subtle angle. 

More than once you had to arrest a fall, but there was not the benefit of a railing or any decoration. The walls were blank dull stone, colorless in the shadows. Torches did not light the way by fire, but rather a series of lifeless vibrating lumes casting cold white rays that barely reached the floor. With your feet enveloped in a river of darkness, you didn’t realize your servitor had come to a sudden halt until you smacked, bodily, into a flat wooden door. Disoriented, you immediately peeled yourself away and was fixing to panic. The door had no handle, no seam in which to fit your fingers into. You had, essentially, been lead to a dead end. You were preparing to take it out on the servitor when you realized it wasn't completely silent.

A series of strange syllables spilled from the vox grill embedded in its fleshy throat, forming words that you suspect you weren’t supposed to hear. The completely ordinary wood reacted immediately. Crimson threads wove through the grain, forming a perfectly luminous etching that took form even as you watched, gaping. Then a sound like the dull tolling of a bell came from the material. Wood splintered violently, pelting you and the servitor. 

Flecks of wood fanned around your feet as you stared at the bas-relief forcefully blasted into the surface. A majestic image of a howling angel you had, at first, thought to be Sanguinius but the look of lifeless violence behind the deep set eyes remind you more of Lord Mephiston...

Cringing back violently, light flooded into the abandoned corridor as the door threw itself open. Without any sort of prompting, the servitor glided through, dragging you with it. Indignant and surprised, you had not given it any such order but once your soles were across the threshold there was a pop of air. Behind you was a wall, not a door. You were, in fact, back in the private scriptorium you occupied last night. On the verge of hyperventilating, you could do little else but tremble. The room was exactly as it had been before, framed by the billowing white robes of your servitor as it moved to carefully set down the tome it had been holding. Then it left.

Without orders.

Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. The chamber was shadowed, but not dark. The doorless entryway was illuminated from the outside, broken only by the passing of other blood thralls. None had witnessed what you just did. None addressed the very out of place servitor. 

Behind you, the wall was remained firmly in place. No glowing threads, no dead, staring eyes promising death and glory. Ahead of you, your table and precious tomes awaited. You sat down, deciding to forget about what happened. Translating and transcribing would ease your obviously exhaustion riddle mind...

The doorway darkened. All shadows beyond the door paused. Literally frozen in place. Lord Mephiston had come among you again and everything behind him fell victim to a cease in time. The ritual repeated itself. Head pressed to the table, fingers tented across the parchment. 

“Rise.” He ordered, and you did so even if looking at him invited fresh horror. 

While he was not clad in his battle-plate as he was yesterday, his robes of office were somehow worse. Hanging on a frame that was towering and gaunt, the garment exposed enough of him to view skin that was grey as a corpse. His armor didn’t simply play tricks on your eyes like you’d thought, no. He was truly as reanimated as he looked. Something that had risen from the grave bathed in fire and ash.

He moved to stand beside you, fixing you with a hard, but placid glance. “You are wise to fear me. But not here. Not now.”

Mephiston gestured strangely and the sconces lining the ceiling blazed to life. The pallor of death abandoned him just as surely as you swore it had been there. Eyes dark and hooded but otherwise normal no longer held the eyeless stare of something dead and hateful. You relaxed, if only a little.

“Do you know why I gave you this task instead of one of my Lexicanum?” 

The question physically threw you. Out of anything you were expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. It took you several moments to reply. “I was...always curious but assumed it was because I am one of Imola’s descendants?”

“What do you remember of your mother?”

The shock almost made you vomit. Fingers curled into tight fists within your sleeves. “My mother?”

When he did not elaborate, the sickness in your stomach was forced to settle and words spewed forth inside of bile. “...my last memory of her was...was Sector Deputy Mort dragging her out of our cell. She’d been howling all night, I tried...to help, but I guess someone complained.”

His gaze fell and a sort of guilty look crossed his pale features. It lasted so shortly you weren’t sure what it meant. “She was my personal scribe.”

Mother had never told you that. Even before her mind slipped. Mephiston didn’t wait for you to process the emotion. “Never once had she feared me. Even when she was young she had a fire in soul seemingly fueled by Baal itself. When the invasion came, she stayed at her post, stubbornly refusing to leave the tomes she’d spent her life around. In the end it was what saved her when all others perished. The lower levels where most of the scholiasts evacuated to was broken into and devoured.”

“All of those nightmares she woke up from...”

Mephiston nodded. “Yes. Guilt ate her from the inside out. I spoke to her, briefly, when sanity was still with her and she confessed. I do not hold her bravery against her. She secreted a vast number of important tomes away with her, hiding in the same hall you emerged from.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You asked, unable to contain the burst of anger rotting through your throat. You weren’t sobbing, but almost. 

He let out a very slow breath. “You remind me a lot of her. She was as dedicated to the work as you are. All blood thralls are, but it consumed her intellect. It was never enough to merely complete her duties. Literature was everything to her. Understanding not just the words, but the meanings behind them. All of them.”

Gradually, the ball of muscle clutching your pharynx unwound. “I am like that too, I think. It helped me cope with her disappearance. I didn’t have any friends so I turned to the scriptorium and never looked back.”

You understood him then. A shared, harmonious loss. A lack of closure souring the heart and soul. While you weren’t as damaged as your mother had been, the anxiety and self-imposed isolation was very real. You, the child of the woman who had unintentionally survived the death of her fellows, inherited perceived sin. For a while, you secretly lived hating her, hating her empty, terrified stares in the middle of the night even as it slowly broke your heart. You had begged her to tell you what was wrong, but she always refused. Now you understood why. The hate was shameful. Misunderstood. Unfair. 

Maybe you hadn’t known her at all. Maybe she hadn’t known you, either. Such emotional barriers couldn’t be crossed, even by love. Had she loved you? She must have, right? So many questions wanted to spring to your lips, but to ask them of the Chief Librarian was absurd and inappropriate. You doubted he would be able to tell you much anyways. Much had been answered, yet so much left unanswered. 

Biting your bottom lip until it hurt, your coiled fists pounded mutely into your work surface. “I will finish this tome, my lord. By tonight. I promise. I’ll bring the journal and everything I have on the transcriptions.”

A flicker of pride lit his eyes with white flame. “I will hold you that, scholiast.” His familiar, almost warm tone only pressed you further. The moment his feet left the room and time crawled forward once more, your pen was already put to parchment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	4. Odd Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While you finish your work on time, Lord Mephiston is elsewhere so his confidant reviews your work instead.

Your night was spent battling with translations and emotions and only one of them was a difficult fight. Crying felt useless but you did so anyways, numb to the pain, angry with either yourself, or your lord. You couldn’t decide which. He was trying to connect you to a past you had all but left behind. Perhaps on your mother’s last behest. Last? You were assuming she wasn’t alive anymore, but you knew that wasn’t entirely fact either. He hadn’t included that information, or maybe he didn’t know either?

The constant scratching of the nib across fresh paper helped drown out the silence. No other blood thrall disturbed you and you were, at least, better tied to reality than you had been last night or the first agonizing hours after Mephiston left. It was a strange, dissociative affair where old memories collided with reality until your mind spilled out of your skull. Dreamlike, you got no work done and spent nearly a full hour in a state of drifting and mild terror. Only with effort were you able to pull your mind back into your shell and focus. After that it was the flow of ink on parchment. The one thing that mattered to you. 

But soon your work was completed. It should have been a proud moment. Instead you spent it venting the last of your exhaustion revising and recording your own thoughts. Much of it had to do with the text but some, embarrassingly, leaked your own troubles. It helped to scrawl down the emotions you refused to feel otherwise. Maybe if mother bothered to write down her thoughts you would have known her a little better. It was easier than speaking them. Unless it was to Mephiston, apparently. But not to you.

Then you ran out of pages. Your travel journal, thickly bound and stuffed as full as the cover would hold, reached the end. Bloated and bent every which way, it sat in front of you begging to stop. Some of the ink had smudge you wrote so quickly and closely together. While the penmanship wasn’t entirely terrible, your lines canted slightly as if manually italicized. Ah, well. 

You set the pen aside. The quill was slightly worn and your hands ached something terrible. You thrust them into your sleeves and let out a ragged breath. Slowly the sense of accomplishment you had been searching for seeped out of the tattered reaches of your mind, bringing energy but also another damned headache. You’d forgotten to eat and drink again, damn you. You laughed slightly at your own hopeless behavior, rubbing your palm across your face. You felt oily and gross, but still kind of happy. 

On creaking knees you slowly stood, taking your bloated journal with you into an inner pocket. The unbound and revised book you had dedicated so much time to had only a few fly leafs to show for your effort, the parchment fresh and gleaming in the fire glow. It would be finished off in leather and brass once your lord approved of the final draft. Above it sat the original, large and shimmering with gold leaf capitals and blood-inked pictographs even you couldn’t translate. It too had reached the last page, but this contained no fly leafs. Only a single seal where a wax stamp might have once been, now a greasy stain of pink. The classic winged blood drop. Beside it, smaller but no less grand, was the spelling key and its countless graphs and indexes. While not illustrated or illuminated, it seemed to dominate the table with its deep black-blue ink and sheer amount of information. Not to mention the countless buds of wax stamped into each top corner. Likely to keep the pages separated to prevent bleed through in moisture. 

You left them and the first draft laying on the table, moving away with the slowness of the very tired. Indeed you were fatigued beyond reason. While it wasn’t especially late, you still headed straight for your cell. Other Scholiasts were doing the same, moving in the same shuffling gate of people who had not stood for hours. Reaching the last turn in your journey home, a servitor intercepted you, which in of itself was usual. What made it jarring was the fact that it spoke. Hovering just a foot away from your face, the thing was a cherubim model, taking flight on long mechanical wings fashioned to be skeletal in nature and the face was a idealized death mask of Lord Mephiston. Rendered in pure gold, it utterly robbed him of his darker features, impression-driven to give the viewer the image of perfection and clarity. 

And then the withered thing spoke. “Greetings, thrall! I have been ordered to inform you that our glorious chief librarian can not review your work this evening, but will instead have his codicer Antros work with you. For the time being.”

Something in its tinny, mechanical voice was accusatory and you could not help but recoil from its motionless mask. However, the servitor did not wait for any sort of reply, it only buzzed and flapped away noisily, expecting you to follow it.

Confused and tired, you let it wheel you down corridors and into an annexed part of Librarium that hadn’t been there before the Tryanid invasion. Thralls normally did not wonder out that direction because there was never any need. There was normally nothing there, except perhaps extra storage and security measures. At least that’s what you thought. 

Oh, not again. The servitor stopped before a totally normal wall of stone and started speaking jibberish. The same crimson threads of light infected the masonry and stone powdered. Moaning in misery laden confusion, you followed the cherubim down into darkness. And down further still until the dropping temperature reached through your work robes and threatened to chill your bones. It ended only when the darkness opened up into what you could only think was your master’s equivalent to the Scriptorium. 

Rows upon rows of strong ironwood tables lined the open room, strewn with quills and parchment rolls sized for the hands of gods. Other, most complex instruments of cognition and prediction perched on or were clamped to these tables, glittering black and bronze in the low light of fire bearing discs. The whole place stank of sacred smoke and the more subtle but all the more noticeable scent of blood. 

Only a single other figure was there to greet you. He was clad in the sapphire armor of his fellows, but immediately you knew he was a little different. While you still kept your eyes diverted, his air of authority was born of teaching rather than age. He was young, and looked it too. A soft stubble of straw-blond hair crested his head, framing a face slightly distorted by a range of scar tissue traveling from temple to temple. It did nothing to hide his youthful handsomeness, however. Nor his clear, expressive eyes. Again, a little odd.

“I am Antros.” He said simply, seemingly as lost as you. “You are Lord Mephiston’s scribe?”

“I am?” You forgot yourself a moment and looked up, blinking hard. The servitor, noticing the breech of conduct, prepared to screech a warning but Antros glared at it and waved.

With something you thought was a huff, it wheeled away and left you two be.

Antros cursed softly, apparently as disturbed by the servitor was you were, but quickly forgot about it. “Approach. If Mephiston entrusts you to transcribe his work then there’s nothing you have to fear here.”

You scurried forward quickly, able to look at him now. It was far easier to do so than Mephiston or Rhacelus. “He mentioned he wanted to look through my journal as well. I have that with me too.”

“Oh? Good.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced and your bloated notes were hilariously dwarfed in his armored hands. Still, when he took the moment to rapidly flip through it, his eyes went from doubtful to impressed. 

“Well, I can see you accounted for a lot of variations in his text. Which can be...hard to read even for the Librarius. Drifts in the dialect from centuries ago verses today. Not to mention he seems fit to use a mix of languages at times...”

Something about this ranting warmed your heart. A passion and intellect you could agree with. “Exactly. I think the first chapters even used a language not actually used for a few centuries after he penned it?”

Antros’s eyes screwed shut for a moment. “You are correct. He is a mystery...”

You had the impression the man was speaking out loud and knew better than to point it out. Part of you wanted to keep talking, to keep the conversation going, but Antros seemed as awkward and thoughtful as you at the moment. Thankfully he spoke first.

“It seems as though he is grooming you for a higher position.” He said, talking from experience. “He’s mentioned you a handful of times as well.”

This surprised you, but you hid it well enough as bashful gratitude. Although once more the young Librarian seemed to read your mind. “He has not mentioned much has he?”

You could only shake your head. “He...mentioned a few personal details he know about me that I did not even know about myself. It was...enlightening?”

The cringe was shared with him, apparently. “I did not expect to agree with a thrall today, but Mephiston is hardly...predictable.” He stopped himself. “But we have to remember, thrall. He does so for a reason. He is infallible.”

You nodded harder, agreeing, but you felt a strange hesitancy in his voice that you absolutely refused to think further of. To do so would be just a inch from heresy. Right?

Antros sighed. “Well, I suppose we should get to work.”

“Aye, my lord...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	5. See ya Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After you and Antros finish your work, more secrets come to light. Understanding others is a hard lesson to learn when all you've had for company was your own emotions.

As it turns out, Antros was very pleasant company. He had underestimated you when you first met it seems, and so the man spent a good bit of the conversation looking a little sheepish and apologetic. There was plenty to critique of course, but Antros just as easily praised your work as well. Especially when it came to making multiple possible translations for a single line of text. Never the less, you had the feeling it wasn’t hard to stay in his good graces. After several hours, the both of you fully worked up and edited your second working draft. You’d need to hand it off to the Chief Librarian for the final markup, but Antros’ help had cleared through nearly every mistake. Unfortunately the young Codider needed to return to other duties and the two of you bid each other a formal but rather pleasant goodbye. You could tell he wanted to keep speaking to you and the departure was reluctant. Hiding your charmed blush and smile, you too scurried off.

Thankfully you left through a much saner passage way tucking back towards the Librarius proper. After another slow hour you managed to find your way back to the thrall living sectors, picking your way through the early evening crowds returning from their long shifts. You had to be honest with yourself, however, after such exalted company your current crowd felt...hollow. No, correction, you felt hollow. Your task was almost complete after all. Weeks and weeks of study and translation reaching fufillment. A single draft more was all it would take. What would happen after that? Will you simple be forgotten, to be one of recovering thousands yet again? Lost in a crush of unimportant, but all together necessary chores? Or were you afraid of losing you relevancy among your masters? All of the above?

“Every thralls has a purpose.” You told yourself firmly, before the snare of worry hooked your throat in its clutches. You didn’t feel like spending hours working yourself out of a downward spiral again. But the phrase only helped only a little. Sleep, you told yourself would help more. It was crawling towards evening rest hours and retiring a little early wouldn’t bother anyone. If you couldn’t sleep, your old studies, your own personal projects, always awaited. It had been too long since you got to simply read, record, free-form. Art was, after all, as much a part of the culture of the thralls as it was your masters. With those sparks of light carried in your pounding heart, you hurried along but came to a full stop when a massive hooded figure stood before your cell door.

It was Sector Depty Mort. Unable to control the bulge of rage forming in your throat, you exploded forth, your worn leather sandals slapping loud against red dusted marble. “I thought I was excused today!”

Mort recoiled, looking vaguely surprised and nonplussed. An expression you remembered being far more intense on Lord Rhacelus. Yet you ignored this fact, staring hard at the battle scarred face. You didn’t budge but neither did he. To your shock, however, the man flinched back and sighed. 

“That’s not it. You best come in and sit down.”

The bulge of anger swiftly transformed into anxiety and with wide, numb eyes you followed him inside. 

“Ah, listen...” He pulled back his hood and itched his bald scalp. You could not help but direct your eyes at the amount of old wounds present there. It looks like something had actually tried to bite his scalp off. If he noticed your eye-lock he ignored it, somehow able to look both tired and sheepish at the same time. It was weird and panic inducing to see that on a man like Mort who was known only for scowling and growling. “I’m aware that...you weren’t ever given the information you deserved, uh...”

You intercepted him. “It’s about mother isn’t it?” You weren’t able to keep the angry tremble from your voice.

Mort cringed again. “Yeah, listen...there was a lot of panic around that time. You were born so soon after the invasion, barely anyone had time to recover. People would still see shadows in the night. Things crawling through their dreams. It wasn’t anytime to raise babies, but so many were dead. If we didn’t have a second generation there never would have been anyone anymore.”

He seemed to wait for a reply from you, but you had none to give. 

Clearly not used to delivering bad news with any amount of sympathy, he tired being softer. “Your ma loved you. Very much. She just wasn’t ever sane enough to tell you.”

“How the hell do you know? Did you talk with her?”

He nodded slowly, almost ashamed by it. “Aye, of course I did. I...uh...I’m your da, kid.”

Yelping, the big man immediately moved out of your way. He was not surprised by your grasp, but definitely by your speed and rage. Gulping, he held your flailing, screaming form away from him, your feet just inches off the floor. “Ah, hell, please...don’t do that. It really hurt having to take her away, ya know.”

“How do you think it felt for me!?” 

“Bad, I’m sure.” He sighed. “Now I’m gonna put you down. If you try to hit me I’m throwing you. Clear?”

You calmed, but only marginally. Your feet dropped to the floor, yet you barely resisted the urge to launch at the man again.

“Listen, kid...I’m not expecting you to call me da or treat me with any amount of respect at this rate, but Lord Mephiston told me you needed to know.”

“So he was the one who thought I needed to know, huh?” You replied bitterly. A part of you said he wasn’t to blame, but one bit of shocking news after the other left your brain with no room to contemplate or cope. 

Mort seemed suddenly wary of your balled fists. “I...ah, well...” He looked around as if seeking advise from people who were no longer with him. The pain in his voice, however, made you look up. “I’m not much of a father. Wasn’t even much of a lover, I guess. Didn’t really think I was worth it, ya know? I was on the wall, during the invasion. I saw...a lot of things I still sometimes see when I close my eyes. No kid of mine needed a dad that weak.”

Him? Weak? The man was built like he should have been Astartes and only got halfway there. Maybe that’s indeed what had happened to him? You were only speculating at this point, yet your mind loved coming up with scenarios. It’s how you prepared. It’s how you coped. 

His gnarled fingers drummed on his knees in an ironically child-like gesture making you realize, vaguely, he probably didn’t really have a childhood. “So what happened to her?” You asked, voice lowering. 

“After she got taken away? Well…I’m not real sure, but there was a lot of others like her. Most, I think, were sent off to go through screenings. To make sure their minds weren’t open to…outside influences.”

Your blood ran cold. Outside influences was, unceremoniously, the code word for warp taint. Daemons. You refused to let the word bloom in your mind, uttering a curse. Mort did the same before continuing. 

“Uh, I wasn’t privy to any of that, though. I had asked, sometimes, but asking around too much gets you in trouble. At least it did back then. A lot of paranoia. Too much information was sometimes more dangerous than none at all, yeah?” He looked to you for understanding but found you still struggling to process it all. So he stuttered onward. “I was on the wall, as I said. Would have been an Angel if I was just a handful of years younger.”

Oh, now you understood. The crush of shame must have been terrible, to be passed up by yours masters simply because of bad timing. That part you could get. He saw you nod deeply and visibly relaxed. Really you hadn’t noticed he’d been tense at all. The man always looked like that, but now you knew why.

“But you still don’t know if she’s even alive?” You asked after a long stretch of time, allowing him to bath in your understanding. 

He shook his head. “No. No one does. They kept that part locked up real tight and likely for good reason.”

Eventually you understood that too. “Keep everyone else from panicking I guess.”

“Aye, as I said, minds and moods were on a hair trigger back then. People got into fights over perceived slights. Some would claim that the Tyranids weren’t actually dead and were hiding in the Arx’s underbelly, waiting to come back up and eat us when we slept.” The man shivered, causing your skin to prickle. Just the idea of more of those awful xenos eluding the wards of your masters yet again brought a chill to your spine. For a good number of years you had only heard of the adults chattering fearfully about them, and when your parsed the remaining archives to actually see what they looked like…well, you had regretted eating breakfast so quickly that morning. Never again did you ever research that word again. It was too terrifying. 

“So you see why so much and so many just…became lost.” He shrugged, wary. “But I think I’ve unloaded enough on ya. Again, not expecting any kindness and definitely not expecting any forgiveness either. Still, at least I got all that off my chest."

You narrowed your eyes. “You actually wanted to tell me?”

The man slowly got up, staff clanking against tile stones. “Of course I did! I’d just never been allow to.”

Something about that made you smile. “T-Thank you, Mort. I don’t know what to make of any of this, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Aye, you will. You’re not Mephiston’s scribe for nothing. See ya around, kid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	6. Tomorrow Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mephiston's interactions with you gradually become more...personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for biting and mentions of blood.

Mort’s departure from your cell left you with an odd sense of emptiness in your heart. It wasn’t yearning for his company again, you knew that much. You were still incensed, even if the man wasn’t to blame. Still, you found yourself missing...something. Your mother perhaps? That seemed a little ridiculous to you now that you thought about it. You’d been doing fairly well without her up until recently. You coped, but the old scars were open again, torn. But instead of bleeding, the wound felt…eviscerated. Hollow of substance when you desperately searched for hold something to hold onto. What did you want to be feeling really? Hope? Anger? Sadness? 

What was the most appropriate to feel after all of this? Should you be going back to work or? What had you done immediately after your mother was taken away? Maybe you’d gone back to sleep, eyes wide open and terrified. Maybe you got up and studied so you could think about anything else except your mother’s fading scream vanishing down the hall. 

Honestly? Reading sounded nice. 

To your left, at the side table, was your humble collection of books. The casual ones anyway. The rest were texts made purely for your job and weren’t meant to simply be read, so much as followed. The novels, however, were rare and well worn copies handed down through generations, strictly filtered to be appropriate for thralls of your class and rank. Your mother had owned them at some point even if you’d never seen her read them. You've read them though, of course. Dozens of times to the point where the faded vellum and leather binding became illegible and dark finger prints spotted the covers. Your fingerprints. Familiarity felt nice, you thought, picking up one of the more well-loved stories. It was a short novella, penned by another thrall several centuries ago. It wasn’t an original story so much as a recounting of their daily activities following their master, also long dead by now. The mundanity of it was comforting in ways you could write whole essays about.

Indeed the content itself was hardly interesting, but the author had penned it in such a way that even simple acts such as getting to polish their master’s armor felt like an honored act. And it was! It gave them every excuse to detail their master’s battleplate down to the nicks and scratches as they were removed. 

Then you began to realize why you were lonely. Why this book seemed so strangely romantic to you. The thrall had such privilege as to get to spent long amounts of time with an indifferent but always present master. They always had a task to do, usually given to them directly by this master. To serve was, in other words, the greatest pleasure when done so with love and without question. The simplicity of it was endearing. So endearing in fact that you started to feel…jealous. 

Perhaps one day, in your wildest dreams, Mephiston might take you in for such tasks. Being able to serve him every day sounded wonderful, but were you worthy of it?

Five chapters vanished under your fingertips before you decided to take a break. The daydreaming had done you well, at least. Filling your empty heart with slightly inappropriate if envious fantasies felt…unbecoming. However, you reasoned if it kept you sane today, they would have to do. 

Sporting a much clearer conscience, you prepared to see if there was still time left in the day to catch up on work you’d been excused from the day before. Your path was blocked a servitor. It stood, nearly faceless and terrible at your doorstep, easily a foot taller than Mort himself. It carried only a single scroll, which it handed to you with dull compliance. It did not speak, for in fact it had no mouth. 

Numbly accepting the scroll, you read it quickly. It was a summons. You were to meet Mephiston within the Scriptorium once more. The servitor stood there, staring blankly, until you dismissed with a wave and a grunt. With the rest of the day already well and truly decided, you wondered back into your cell to gather your tools and draft, stuffing your journal deep within your pockets as if hiding great shame.

The way there was entirely normal save for the emptiness of the halls once you reached the Scriptorium proper. A few thralls worked within secluded alcoves, but the busy traffic between chambers and stairwells was practically none existent. Likely because Mephiston lurked among their ranks.

Quietly, your feet followed the familiar path and found him within, haloed in a ring of darkness. He had no sconces lit this time. His eyes allowed him to see perfectly well in the minimal light provided by the hall outside. He moved when you approached, clearly having heard you from down the hall. 

“Come.” He ordered simply and you obeyed with a nervous lump in your throat. 

The fear was unfounded. He motioned and again the sconces were finally lit, throwing his features into focus. He looked...fresher somehow. His pale hair was slick with moisture and his skin actually flushed a little. Either he had bathed or just stepped out of his coffin. Even his eyes seemed clear of emotion and judgment. Or perhaps you’d simply been looking at him wrong this entire time?

“Antros has informed me there was very little error in your work.” He mentioned, verbally pleased. “This is good. And the notes you took, he said, were significant.”

You nodded immediately, flushing a little. “Aye, lord. I wanted to make sure I covered all I could given the material.”

“Indeed.” He replied, handing his palm out for you to deposit your journal and draft. You did so with a strange eagerness. The unbound draft, taking up most of your chest, was hilariously palm sized for him, but clearly still readable as his long fingers rapidly flipped through the pages. He was nodding softly throughout, muttering but not dangerously or critically. That was a good sign, right?

“I am impressed you accounted for dialect, especially the sort…unique to me.” Mephiston appeared to mutter something inaudible before a quill drifted from his robes, suspended by nothing. It then proceeded to make edits even as he turned his attention away from the draft. 

“Aye, lord. As I’ve mentioned to Lord Antros, some dialects in the text seem to proceed its…actual use on Baal, even in the Arx among the thralls some centuries before.” You told him.

His expression became curious if eerily distant. “Ah, so you see things even I’m not always aware of. Yes, this will do.” Without explanation, he snapped the book shut and the quill dropped to the table in front of him. You doubt the ink had even time to dry. A question was brought to bare but before it could fully form, the answer spilled from his lips unbidden.

“My mind forever slips in and out of time and space. It is the nature of my Gift.” At this point he wasn’t talking directly to you, but almost musing to himself. Instead his eyes had fallen upon the extensive notes you had taken, bloated and slightly bent from overuse. A small gesture saw it flinging itself open on the table, pages rustling dryly. He was reading so rapidly his eyes seemed to be a red quiver in his deep sockets. 

“Yes, indeed you’re very aware of my written habits by now. I can make a lot of use of this.” The book slapped shut with a dull thump, abused leather and cheap vellum refusing to stay completely closed. 

“My lord…?” You asked, nearly aghast. Was he promoting you? Secreting you away somewhere? 

Seeing the expression on your face, for it must have been pale and terrified, he paused. A part of him looked almost…hurt? Guilty? It lasted for one precious, fearful second before it melted from his face like wax. “Do you understand why I have decided to involve Scribes with my personal tasks?”

Shock still fresh on your breath, a reply none the less formed easily. “Because so few of us were…were left after the devouring.”

“Exactly.” He affirmed, voice hard and cold. “So much knowledge. So much skill that could never be recorded or brought back. Natural talent suddenly became rare and valued. I can’t afford to be apart from the affairs of even the lowest thrall in my Librarius anymore.”

You were stunned, but kept respectfully silent. You had not expected him to…care? Was that the word? No, passion was the word. He valued life, all life within the Arx, because in the end it was irreplaceable. The xenos had stolen so much. 

“You understand.” He confirmed, softly. It broken your heart to hear him like that. “I sometimes hear Dante calling out the names of the thralls he lost, when he forgets to sleep. Imola’s passing hurt me as well.”

Fighting back impassioned tears, the shame came hot and heavy. “Forgive me, my lord. I had…not realize how much the invasion might have taken from my masters…from you. I only saw what I lost."

He shook his head. “Had your preceptive been wider, your grief would have been as sharp as your mothers. It was best you did not know until now. Sometimes ignorance is safe.”

You wanted to argue against that, but he moved again, crooking a long finger towards you. Approaching without thinking, you felt as if you were rooted to the ground by a shaft of ice when he touched you. It was not hand to robe, but hand to neck. Mephiston’s skin was bone cold and as dry as the vellum you worked with. So too was his mouth. Your master leaned in so quickly the sting his fangs left against the posterior left of your neck lasted only moments. The wound, if there was one, burned for a moment before a numb tingle deadened the nerves. You were not able to move again until his cold, cold hand left your skin.

Then you got to see his Angel’s teeth. Easily the length of your finger, they shone pink with the sample they had taken. In the shadows of the first pair, a second threatened to erupt from his gums but his jaw slammed shut before they could. In a gesture too quick for you to clearly make sense of, the tiny drop cascaded from his teeth, briefly forming a sigil in the air before stamping itself into the lead page of the draft. 

“A reassurance.” He explained softly. “A blood seal for the author.”

The cold, numb sensation his teeth had left on your neck hadn’t gone away, but it was warming. And with it came an embarrassing euphoria you were only familiar with once..during your long gone teen years. “Am…am I to return to you, master?”

“Yes, tomorrow eve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	7. Ambition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your fate is actively rewritten, forcing you to leave the old behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full warning for an active panic attack and slightly self destructive behavior.

Having departed from Mephiston presence only hours ago, your neck went from eerily numb to down right itchy. Resisting the urge to scratch the wound took a physical effort. In the end you resorted to gently slapping it like an idiot. Blood fly bites itched far worse, but scar tissue was already starting to form, making you wonder just what exactly was in Astartes saliva aside from acid…

Your hands were, thankfully, empty. Your master insisted on taking the half finished final draft edits with him, along with your tools and journal. Vidiens, the strange cherubim servitor that had given you such repulsive feelings before, collected all of it with what you considered to be a glare before darting from the room. Mephiston had left soon after. 

Despite the day’s hectic events, you were looking forward to sleeping again and so developed an odd sort of paranoia when approaching your cell door, half expecting to be intercepted again. To your great relief you were not. The room remained as dark as you had left it, piled with the corpses of half finished projects and text books left open to the draft. No signs of tampering. Good. Briefly you considered reading a little to settle down, maybe as a means of ignoring your new found itch, but your body felt heavy. Maybe you were hungry or thirsty, but rest was clearly winning out. 

You weren’t even aware you had fallen asleep, waking on your cot with last night's book accidentally wedged against your posterior. Disrespected, the cover looked even more bent and abused. A shame, because you were really starting to understand the author now. It made you recall what you had felt when Mephiston’s naked hand, cold as a corpse, touched your over-warm neck. The goose flesh and the sting of his teeth, sudden but not unpleasant. It brought to mind embarrassing teen days struggling with hormones and awkwardness. Trying to navigate into adulthood alone. Your face went as red as your master’s armor when you lingered on that thought a little too long and realized you had a word for that emotion.

Arousal? Really?

“Oh, no.” You moaned, face pressing into the rumpled paper cover of your book. Nothing in your life could have prepared you for this. No amount of reading, no amount of lessons from your mother, and certainly not poor Mort. Nothing. 

“Great Sanguinus.” You hissed, addressing the fact that your face wasn’t the only part of your body feeling…flushed. You hadn’t needed to pleasure yourself in years and the last thing you wanted to do now was mess around in your loins with those thoughts in your head. While not exactly sinful itself, the subject matter of it certainly was. Fortunately, the idea of your lord catching you with that sort of of idea in your noggin quickly drained the heat from your head and groin. 

Perhaps you would need to visit the chapel today after all. If…only to pray those particular feelings away long enough to interact with your master again that night. For now, your belly needed feeding and your daily tasks needed doing. You had no idea what the time was, but you could give a wild guess. If you didn’t get up and get moving Mort would be thunking on your door again. Talking with Mort was not on your agenda and would certainly not be for some time. 

Flipping out of your cot, you rapidly threw on a fresh robe of the appropriate color and make for chores before bolting out of there, sandals slapping. Mort barely missed getting ran over and you failed to hear his call. Doubtfully you would have answered anyways. The sound of your furious running died down once the morning crowd gathered, only lightly glaring at you today. The press of bodies was comforting in its familiarity and you melted into it. Daily chores were always equally filed out and you wouldn’t have protested even if had more than usual, considering your…missing days.

Well, surely enough you had a good pile of them to do from what you could read on the laminated parchment, expanded and nailed to the wall. Other thralls were already shuffling by, muttering to one another in greeting as the overseers passed out task lists and tools. There was a chorus of general grunting in your direction when the overseer you approached found what you had been assigned to. 

“Mm…you are to be in the shelves all day.” 

“…I am? I thought the daily plaque said I was on laundry and sweeping duties?”

The thrall, right around the same age as you but far rougher in the face, wrinkled her nose at you. “There was a revision. You are to be moved out of your cell by tonight?”

“I…I am?”

She shrugged, peering very closely at a set of carefully written instructions on small scroll you could not read. “Aye, tonight. Luck you, must have caught someone’s eye.”

“Oh, lovely.” You replied dryly, sharing something of a look with the other thrall. 

“Looks like you’ve had similar news all week.”

“You have no idea.”

“You’re right I don't!” She gave you a sardonic smile, tapping your chest with the scroll. “Better hurry up I guess. Holding up the line.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry.” 

Clutching the parchment to your chest, you slogged away. Included with the revised chore list was a map, leading far deeper into the Librarius than you would imagine you had access to. It hit you. This was Mephiston’s doing, it had to be. Did that mean you were going to be saying goodbye to this sector forever? You thought of Mort and your mother. If you were to be moved by tonight, should you bother to send a farewell at all? Strange, given that you’ve actively avoided thinking about both of them since yesterday. 

And your mother? Would you ever get to find out if she’s alive or…?

The panic hit you a far too quickly, forcing you steered into a lavatory before your already empty belly purged its bile. The taste was awful and with water so precious you had nothing to wash it from your mouth. It took a monumental effort to calm down, sitting slumped and quaking over the toilet box. The closed confines felt both claustrophobic and protective all at once. You couldn’t imagine what you would have done if you lost control in public. The door was locked, no one was roaring for you to get out. At the same time, the plain brick walls were too uniform, too close together. Too isolating. Too…everything. 

“Safe." You told yourself with a surety you didn’t feel. “I am safe. No one saw me. I’m fine." You had to get out eventually, just…not right now. 

Wiping the sleeve of your robes against your tongue in an effort to scrub the acid from your tastebuds, you deemed yourself ready to stand. Food and drink first. With a head full of fuzz and feet full of lead, you pried the door open and tried to look normal making your way to the mess hall.

Ah, but the food did do you good. People were generally keeping to themselves and the water was a little fresher than usual today. Likely an off world shipment. Good…good.

Consequently the post panic numbness was sort of nice. Hard to think, but the chatter was reduced to an achy buzz of static, both comforting and eerie. Something in your body cramped and your stomach was having a hard time digesting the food, but hydrating was helping. No sudden, urgent need to flee either. 

Getting up was a rough and dizzy. Nothing you decided you couldn't handle. Joints were stiff and burning. Probably from the full body cramp you experienced while throwing up. Or maybe you went too long without water? Stupid move on your part, really. You would get over it. You had to. You were expected somewhere and you still had work to do.

Work was familiar. Work meant you were useful, skilled, teachable. Just get there and it’ll be fine.

Well, you don’t remember how you got there, but the work site was similar enough to the upper levels that you mistook it for one and the same. It was not. Your masters, clad in sapphire, congregated about the sweeping marble spaces but there was apparently damage here. Old and in a state of repair, but clearly damaged. 

You noticed too that these were mostly of a single rank, codicier. While not of a senior position like Rhacelus and Mephiston, these men still had power over you and once you crossed their threshold they immediately started to wave you over, as if to either judge or direct. 

One particular Astartes was able to pick you out immediately and the crack of his staff on the flagstones got the others to pause. 

“Hold! This one’s assigned to me.” Cried out Antros, looking just as pleasantly confused as he had the day you met him. That look on his scarred face sort of made the panic attack worth it.

Without further word, you ducked under his brothers and swept towards him in a way you hoped didn’t seem desperate. “My lord, it’s good to see you.”

The smile on his face, still vaguely confused, widened enough to see the faint gleam of his Angel’s teeth. “Likewise. Odd, but likewise. Lord Mephiston seems fond enough of you to have you moved into my tower.”

Your poor, already abused belly jumped again but thankfully there was no repeat. “I-I see…”

For the moment the sapphire giant seemed to glare, but his expression softened almost immediately. “I suppose our fates are being actively rewritten, aye? But ambition is good. Our lord will have the right ideas.”

Did you somehow imply that you thought otherwise? Before you could voice that, he was leading you further into his domain, explaining as he walked. It was a lot to take in, but his voice carried just fine and you found him informative and almost comforting. The connection you both had felt when you first met was somehow deepened here.

Slowly you two wound down into the interior of his domain, a sweeping tower missing many of its stairs but the thralls quarters were largely untouched it seemed. Antros looked up, towards the very top of the tower where a roof might have been at one point. The gentle cascade of dry, dusty air from on high suggested it was open to Baal’s element. The codicier seemed…sad. “Make yourself at home here. It’s not what it used to be, but it’s better than what you had.”

“I’m staying here?”

He nodded. “Aye, that’s what Mephiston wishes. And I need scribes. Many of them were…I’m sure you can fathom their fates at this point.”

You nodded in turn, feeling your heart twinge for your current master. Antros seemed to want to say more, but his clear blue eyes showed a wetness that were almost tears. He stopped and looked away. “Take your time and report back to me by tonight.”

You blinked. “You don’t need me now?”

He shook his head. “I do, but you’re scared. I could feel it the moment you walked towards the tower. I don’t…understand fear. No Astartes does, but we know what it does to humans and thralls aren’t as prone to it as most might be. Takes a lot to bring them to that point. But you’re there. You’re at that point. You’re not going to be much use compromised like that.”

Choking on your words a moment, you caught a faint wink from the man and nearly sobbed in gratitude. “Th-Thank you my lord. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I know you won’t."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	8. Blood Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet more shocking news hits, giving you precious little time to cope, but it brings...strange opportunities. And duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a small warning for panic attacks, nightmares and a mention of blood.

Your new cell in Antros’s half ruined tower was somehow less and so much more than your old one. Sometime during the afternoon another thrall, not a servitor, delivered your things and helped you arrange what you could. The interaction was not exactly planned, but welcomed. The rune markings on your fellow’s robes weren’t any you could identify and you weren’t yet comfortable enough to ask too many questions. They were plenty nice however. In fact many of the thralls here seemed at least okay with you being there. It wasn’t a press of bodies and ranks mingled into one like you were used to. They functioned more like coworkers than reluctant neighbors. Whole blocks seemed to be dedicated to single projects or participating in repairs and restorations. 

At some point you were brave enough to have a wonder about and found teams and teams of adepts you did not identify as Baalite working to painstakingly touch up and repair horrendously damaged but stunning works of art lining the tower’s inner workings. It broke your heart to see it, honestly. You were lucky, you supposed, that you had been so sheltered from hugely effected sections of the Librarius. Seeing it now, it caused your heart to flutter in fear and sorrow. 

Your explorations also weren’t barred, which surprised you. Some might have waved you away from more dangerous construction sites, but you weren’t an unwelcome guest. Conversations even happened when you could grasp them. As it was discovered, Antros hand-picked a good handful of these thralls to work down here in repairing his domain and restoring what few works and tomes were still left. Functioning under the more personal instructions of one of your masters had, you guessed, united the thralls to a cause and stamped out the personal opinions and paranoias you’d seen in your old sector. 

No, you corrected yourself, it wasn’t…a paranoia per-say, but a sense of anti-social purposelessness. Thralls were precious now, but still overworked and authority was in short order. At least here, where interaction and collaboration were encouraged, the work did not seem so terrible and tedious. These were skilled workers being allowed to do what they were taught to do, rather than wasting time and talent sweeping floors and scrubbing toilet boxes. Things servitors could have done, if there had been enough of them to do so. You suddenly, sharply, felt awful for the ones you left behind. You had made no friends there. You certainly missed no one, and Mort was…you weren’t sure what to feel about him, but you still believed it was appropriate to feel ashamed of your newly gained privilege. At the same time, you did not realize how…miserable the old work made you. How constantly anxious and bored you’d been, seeing something better and greater just by walking out of your cell. 

You returned this cell several hours later. The place was vast and largely uncluttered, but also eerily empty despite the great swaths of collaborating bodies clustering about. At some point you’d seen Antros marching up and down the halls, trailing a team of highly augmented scribes and a small halo of servo skulls. He hadn’t stopped you, but then you’d been expecting that. Again, coming back to your cell, you wondered if any other sudden events would be set into motion, but no. There was a friendly mutter from your neighbor as you returned, your things left as they were. In same fit of brief mania you had darted in and searched around just in case some document had been deposited stealthily among your books, but nope. Nothing.

The nothingness almost disappointed you. Almost.

The paranoia hadn’t quite left you when you settled in for sleep, but the cot was soft, well padded and the blankets were thick and warm. It almost made the nightmare you woke up from worth it. 

Sweating and panting and seeing movement in the shadows where there was none, the knocking at the door came at a particularly bad time. You did not mean to moan in terror, but it happened anyways, lost in the last moments of the dream where things with chitinous claws hunted you, screaming with the voice of your mother. 

The knocking became furious now, a concerned but stern voice drifting through the steel closure. 

“Go away Mort!” You wailed dryly, gripping the sheets as if preparing to use them as a weapon.

It was not Mort. The confused and frustrated voice told you so. It took you another few moments to calm down. You started to cry as you threw the door open. 

“What!?” You were beginning to scream again, but a wall of deep blue forced you to stop. 

Rhacelus towered over you and he did not look happy. 

Whatever he had been about to counter with, however, froze on his lips seeing the unmasked terror in your wet eyes. He was used to seeing that look in the eyes of the enemy, not his own damned thralls. The awkwardness spread until you controlled yourself, sleeves bunched against your face until reality imprinted itself into your mind again. You forced it to. “I am…sorry my lord. I lost myself for a moment.”

“You were wailing as if you were being eviscerate.” He grunted. 

“Nightmare.” You replied, not in the mood.

“Ah.” That he seemed to understand. His eyes still rolled up into his skull regardless. “Dry your face off. We’re being summoned.”

Aren’t you always? He made to turn you back into your room, but you waved him off, scrubbing furiously at your face until it felt presentable enough. He didn’t look all that impressed, but then again neither were you. Rhacelus obviously did not know what to do about your tired glaring. You imagined he had worn that same expression on his face often enough to feel badly reflected in some way. Relenting with a sigh, he pushed away from the door frame, having failed to cow you. Perhaps that had not been his intention, but his stance relaxed none the less.

“Lord Mephiston wishes to speak with you, me and Antros.” He said as way of explanation. It didn’t give you much information and you wanted to press for more, but he seemed to be missing a chunk of foresight on the matter too.

For every one of his strides you took three, the pace overwhelming but it was better than having to talk to him after that very visible and angry panic attack . It was infuriating really. You figured if you had no control over your fate you could at least have control over your own damned body. That wasn't the case. He must have sensed your mood during the long, long circuit through the Librarius because he pulled you aside eventually. 

Tensing beneath your robes, you prepared to be yelled at, or to have to fight back. Rhacelus shifted his entire significant weight onto his heels, looking at you with eyes that you now knew to be glowing instead of just unrealistically blue. It unnerved you, but your mood remained sour. 

“Look at me.” He rumbled. It wasn’t abrasive, but you still flinched, struggling to do so. 

“Be not afraid.” He rumbled again after a moment, and the words vibrated through your very being, down into places you hadn’t even begun to contemplate. It was as if a rope had been slipped about your wrists, gently pulling you still. “Breath.”

And you did. Slightly against your will, but it…helped. A little. 

One of his hands reached forward, the ceramite tip of his finger pressing carefully into your forehead. “They are not here. The shadows with claws exist only in your mind. It is a poison and should be treated as such. You need to see that. When we are done here, go to the infirmary. Get help. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Each word, each concept, stamped itself into your mind carefully, yet with a grip you couldn’t break even if you wanted to. 

He removed his finger, but continued to peer at you, shaking his head. “And don’t be ashamed either. Crying is good. The Great Angel wept. It’s a sign you’re alive and mean something to yourself.”

“I…th-thank you. I thought you were…going to toss me back down the stairs.”

He snorted. You weren’t sure if it was a laugh, but took it as such anyways. “I wanted to, but Lord Mephiston is too fond of you to allow that. Can’t exactly toss you for something that’s not your fault either.”

“Why is it so frustrating though? I feel like I barely have control of myself anymore.”

He shrugged. “Humans rarely do. At least from what I’ve seen of them. They are frail, in need of protecting, but without them the Astartes wouldn’t exist. I find many of them to be…wanting, but to shun them completely would be…unbecoming.” You noticed his tongue slipped slightly. He wanted to say…something starting with an H, but censored himself. He was making a very visible effort to pick his words, clearly not used to…well, being nice in any capacity. The idea of it amused you, in dark sort of way that you quickly hid with a nod of agreement. 

That seemingly satisfied the Epistoary, rising with a groan of servo motors that put your teeth on edge. You weren’t ready to meet with your masters just yet but you were felt calm enough not to react. This section of the Librarius was still heavily under repairs and exposed to the elements, a dry, stinging wind beating down upon your robes as you walked around the corner with Rhacelus. No one else was around except Lord Mephiston and Lord Antros, both already in quiet conversation. Antros was animated, almost argumentatively so but the Chief Librarian was hardly reacting. It immediately raised a few questions with Rhacelus and indeed you saw him preparing to speak up, but Mephiston held up a hand and conversation ceased. Even the wind died down in response.

“We leave Baal by the end of the month. We will be taking the Scholiast.”

You stood up straighter. Not because you were taking this well, but because your stomach suddenly clenched and your face felt light, as if you might tip over if you didn’t stand perfectly still. Rhacelus’s face twisted in what you could only see as doubt. 

“Are you sure, my lord? Dante’s edict stated that we were to remain here another year to rebuild the Librarius. We don’t even have enough librarians left to attach to the companies. Of course the Primuaris are-“

“Gaius.” Mephiston spoke heartbreakingly soft. “I am aware. But we can not delay any longer. The more time we spend here is more time the Cicatrix Maledictum will grow. I can not allow that to happen.”

The words, the high gothic utterance, somehow made your head hurt and you wanted to cover your eyes. You were rooted to the ground, unable to move. Rhacelus spared a glance then moved in front of you as if blocking a blow. 

“Do we have a plan?” 

“Yes, we have a map. Vidiens bares the plate and I have finally reached a starting point. We can set a course as soon as a ship becomes ready. I will need Antros's help in my search. You will be my counterbalance. And the scholiast…” He peered towards you, but only briefly. “A reminder.”

“A…reminder, my lord?” Rhacelus asked for you, to your gratitude. 

“Yes, but that I will discuss that with them privately. In the meantime, I will need Antros to help me make an appeal to Dante.”

“Antros, my lord?” The half hidden shock and resignation on Rhacelus’s face would have made you sputter were you of sounder mind. 

Antros, and you did not need to see his face to know this, was grinning.

“Yes, Antros.” Mephiston replied, perhaps a little firmly, and his gesture soon after signaled that they were collectively done here. You sensed rather than saw the elder librarian’s frustration as he shoved away from you, hiding a glare as the gathering was dismissed. Antros hung by for a moment, but turned away once the Chief Librarian looked towards you instead. 

You did not expect to find his cold, hard hands on you again. Pressed against your cheeks, the tips of his fingers curled just under your jaw. He could easily flex his hands, just a little, and break your jaw. He did not. Still, the touch was firm. 

“Be not afraid. Please, be not afraid.”His voice cut through the tension. It sounded almost…hurt? Lost? “The reminder I need is of my humanity. No human should have to be unjustly afraid of me. Of who I am, what I am, yes…but not of me or my intentions. “

The confusion came on even stronger than the anxiety. “I…I don’t understand.”

“You shall. But let Sanguinius spare you the details of it for now. Hopefully.” He replied, almost mournfully and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or at you…very strange indeed. Stranger still was the softness with which his callused fingers continued to adjust their hold on your face. It brought back familiar but unwanted heat in your gut. 

Fortunately he lifted his hands away, pulling his thumb over the needle point of his Angel’s teeth. There was a startling sound of his flesh splitting, then the cold sting of his thumb as it pressed itself like a wax stamp to your forehead. 

“My mark.” He explained. “Just the scent of my blood is enough to ward against most minor phantasms.”

“Phantasms?” You croaked.

“You shall see. Keep your strength about you. This will not be an easy journey, but I trust you.”

Without giving yourself time to think on it, you nodded mechanically. “Then I will not fail.”

“I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.


	9. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last you leave Baal, your only home. Now your home is with your masters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for...sexy things. You'll see.

Days rolled by bleary eyed and stunned. You went to the infirmary as Rhacelus had advised and you were given some sort of light sedative. It worked well. That annoyingly constant edge of panic retreated to the back of your mind as an agitated buzz in your spine. It dulled your emotions, left you feeling drowsy and numb. But you gladly preferred that to the anxiety. Depression was found to be on the tail end of it, too, but you were given something for that as well. Thankfully. You had no idea how any of it worked, but you weren’t going to question that so long as it didn’t kill you.

Still, the drowsiness interfered with your daily activities. Your memory blurred so badly whole hours seemed to go missing. Your body was obviously taking its time to adjust. The supplements you started taking afterwords were…not nearly as effective, but they were a good enough substitute. At best they worked in the days when you were lucid enough to think properly. 

The regiment of pills and supplements, although an absolute chore to juggle, was doing better than you expected if you had to be honest. It no longer felt like you were being driven to the edge of madness and mediocrity like your poor mother. Finally your vulnerable mind felt guarded against outside influences. Lord Rhacelus hadn’t seemed concerned about that, but you were, regardless. Wasn’t that the reason your mother been taken away? Should you be even asking those questions anymore? Who knows.

And did you really want to know the details? No, you decided. You didn’t. So you clung to your medications and your work. You would be leaving Baal and the Librarius for the first time in your life and you wanted to make sure you were as mentally and physically prepared as possible. It was rare for you to feel any determination not having to do with finishing a project, but here you were. It would only be days until you would be stepping aboard a battle barge and taking to the horror of the stars above. Great Angel, you’ve read so, so many horrors about what was out there. If you haven’t just taken a dose for the morning you felt like you might have panicked again. 

Instead you moved through the motions of packing, blissfully numb and slightly drowsy, still with the energy to finish. Servitors came by at regular intervals to collect your things so the process wasn’t as difficult as you would have thought. Not that you had so much to put away in the first place. Mainly spare tools and equipment having to do with your work. From what you’ve heard from other thralls joining the journey, the ships were more than stocked enough to accommodate for missing items. This, for some reason, blew your mind. Being so used to meticulously tracking down each used item, the idea of easily replaced stock seemed almost ridiculous. 

When the day came and your cell was but an empty husk, you found yourself hoarding your little bottles of medication and supplements in your sleeves and pockets. Their incessant rattling was heavily masked by the sound of the iron trams and their noisy rails leading into the ship. The rail car climbed for well over an hour, ascending to the very peaks of the Arx to board the ship. Your ears popped. Even the air felt thinner and colder. Your hearing was slightly muddy, your breath short. None the less, it went as smoothly as it could. The press of other thralls of all ranks dulled outside noise to a minimum and created its own din. You weren’t the only one who was nervous, nor were you the only one who was going off planet for the first time. 

Gruff orders were being growled over the speakers but few actually heard them, and most weren’t meant for the thralls anyways. Others blared layers upon layers of traditional hymnals into the transport cars unless the noise was thick enough to drown conversation. This was fine. You had little to say to anyone else. 

At last, after a dizzying hour of winding along tracks and elevators the blast doors clanked open. You smelt the sharp stink of oil and iron overpowering the plumes of sacred incense a cherub sent swinging into the car. Everyone filed out at a nervous, unhurried pace. No one was burdened by any carryon bags, they simply moved forwards. Gathered on the outskirts of the crowd in neat lines were what you became certain of were armsmen. Why you would need guards when all that were leaving the transports were thralls was beyond your comprehension. For all of a full moment. Tensions were high, you knew that, but then your belief in humanity sank just a bit when one of the thralls started shoving at a slower walker ahead of them. Before anyone could move out of the way the shoving became a knot of bodies that had be dragged away, kicking and cursing, by the guards with stun staffs in hand. The rest of you swiftly looked the other way and walked faster. 

Metal decking rumbled and rang under your sandals, unfamiliar and uncomfortable as you and the small group traversed further into the ship. At some point you were finally left alone by the guards, but your sense of direction soon fluctuated. One hall looked the same as the other. Angel faced speakers all spouted the same hymnals and direction plaques clinging to the walls all seemed worn thin by age and constant friction. But you made it though. Following the crowd helped, winding down several decks to the thrall’s quarters not much unlike the stone and brick cells of the Arx. That lay out, at least, was familiar. You had already been given a cell number and instructions for you by a sector deputy that was both thankfully not Mort. 

As you started to get settled in, new clothing and work tools were delivered crate by crate. The ship had a vast stock of both, unlike the rationing on Baal. Your new robes were still red, but blue was now the dominant color, marking you out, without question, as a thrall of the Librarius. Too the runes stitched into the heavy fabrics showed sigils for servitude to Lord Mephiston and his men. You shoved yourself into this garment immediately and ate a can of dry rations already sitting on a side table. It was made of plate metal instead of wood. In fact almost everything was cold, cold metal. 

You didn’t realize you were cold yourself until you chugged down a small jug of water and found it chilly instead of lukewarm. You didn’t know which you preferred, but the chill would have a hard time leaving your bones. Eventually the crates containing your personal projects and other affects from Baal arrived. The creaking servitors were of the dominantly flesh sort, stinking of oil and dry flesh. They chittered to themselves as the cracked open the crates, leaving them to be unpacked at your leisure before stomping back out. Your cell door shut behind them with a barely oiled creak. 

It was a little bigger, you realized. Perhaps not as large as the cell you very briefly held on Antro’s tower, but close. It would be easy to keep everything spread out and somewhat organized. Some dust still remained in the isolated corners and the place stank of misuse, but it had obviously been cleaned fairly recently. Which was a pleasant surprise. Almost forgetting your fears, the papers in your hands jumped when a previously unnoticed speaker blurted rough static. A voice filtered through.

The ship would be launching in a few hours. Your heart tightened in your chest. In a few hours Baal would fall away. The idea you might never see it again occurred to you, but only for a short while. The sedatives were still doing the trick, it seemed. Curious, you took your sandals off and noticed a faint vibration through the decking. Even idle the ship shook with energy. It was both exciting and terrifying. The Mechanicus often treated these vessels as living things, and perhaps they were?

Ah, but your contemplation was short once again. A knock at your cell door brought another small batch of servitors to your threshold. Most were there to cart off the now empty packing crates, the last was Lord Mephiston’s withered cherubim. Its chirping voice grated in the small space, commanding you to meet your masters within their chambers at an exact hour, at approximately the same time the ship would be leaving Baal’s atmosphere. 

This time you felt a little more prepared. A little more learned. This meeting was only to establish your place among them, you knew, and you didn’t fear new projects. In fact you were starting to look forward to the challenges. Not that Lord Mephiston had ever been particularly demanding aside from his high standards of perfection, but you felt ready none the less.

Yet you were surprised and taken aback when you arrived on time. It was…small. So, so much smaller than you imagined. The entirety of the Librarius on this ship occupied but one chamber. A vast one, mind you, but it was compact and almost dreary compared to the grand halls of shelves and edifices contained within the Arx. Where there have been blood wood and stone now rose brass and matte gold. Small though it might be, it was cramped with grander and riches that forced you eyes to adjust even in dim light. Rich blood red carpets covered a majority of the decking, muffling any and all noise. In fact you were instructed to wear soft fabric soled shoes instead of the heavier reclaimed rubber and leather you wore before. 

Not to mention the place was abuzz with more thrall and scholiast than Astartes. Hundreds of bodies roughly your size, all hidden deep within blue and red robes hemmed with the same of similar gold stitches runes as you. You were, in fact, one of hundreds. That felt…familiar, but strange. Back on Baal you had always stood out at least a little, but here you blended in almost completely. And so, the moment you moved forward, you were part of the crowd. An endless flow of thralls working at nearly all hours of the day and night. What would be day and night on the ship?

You moved with purpose, charging forward in an attempt to follow through the shelves and cases and stacks. The instructions had been clear and your task clearly laid out. The path was marked, but became vague and unused after a while. The trip was short, but the destination somehow felt long. The carpets gave way to age warped wood and then matte black stone supporting portals and thresholds clearly meant to clear the heads of your masters. The one you stepped through now was nearly twenty feet high and carved to resemble the somber embrace of a bleeding angel, his wounds dripping heavy red fabric that acted as drapes. The physical weight of them nearly swept you from your feet and muffled all sound beyond.

You were certainly surprised to see Lord Rhacelus perched just around the corner, a brass goblet in hand. The wine he was drinking smelt pungent and not the least bit coppery. He saw the look on your face, grinned wise enough to show fangs until you started and looked away. 

He rumbled. You weren’t sure if it was a grunt or a chuckle. He rounded on you, slowly. “Relax. Lord Mephiston has a lot to consider with you. Drink.”

Looking up, you saw the rim of the goblet directly in front of your face. The smell was overwhelming, but you drank as commanded. The burn of it was powerful, as was the sting of copper. More than sure it had been laced with blood, you wanted to choke, but swallowed the brew regardless. Tears leapt to your eyes and a cough sputtered from your throat. This time Rhacelus was chuckling. 

“Good, good. Most humans would have vomited that up.”

Oh, you wanted to. It felt acidic in your gut, but it was tolerable. In fact you even had the nerve to glare a little. The elder librarian gestured vaguely, grinned again, and flicked the goblet, downing the rest of his drink. The empty vessel vanished somewhere in his robes. You did not expect him to wink. 

“Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from.”

Your only comprehensive reply was a cough, and his chuckle turned into an explosive but very short laugh. “I suppose you’ve never sampled alcohol before?”

“N-No.” Of course not. Wine was almost always saved for your masters and their highest ranking servants. You wanted to remind him of that but held back, brushing more moisture from your eyes. It had not been a pleasant first taste either. 

He righted himself with the same predator’s grin as before, alighting a heavy armored gauntlet onto your shoulder. “Best be used to it soon enough. Many of our customs in the Librarius require it.”

You knew that, too. At least, approximately. You’d heard, too, of the blood that laced the ritual wine to entice the Thirst. Something about it enhance natural prowess or some sort. The idea of made you shudder with ideas.

But before you could ask questions, or get the taste out of your mouth, Rhacelus’s permanent scowl returned and he was roughly ushering you onwards. “Lord Mephiston expects you in his chambers soon. Be off with you!”

Your feet exploded into movement, slipping on the untextured black stone floor. Before you gained any orientation, or sense of direction for that matter, the room simply…appeared. There was no threshold to cross, you just existed within its space. Sucking in a breath, the chamber was found to be startlingly spare and dreadful. Shelves that seemed to be made of bare bones towered over you, holding tomes clearly sized for giants. The floor was clean and strewn with rugs that were apparently useful as maps or guides. It was impossible to not walk upon them but you did you best anyways. 

“Come.” A voice commanded from within. 

You froze. The voice did not repeat itself, but your lord simply appeared towards the back of the room despite swearing you’d glanced there already. To your immense surprise he was clad in only heavy silks from the waist down, perched upon one of the map rugs like a gargoyle. Seeing him without half of his garments on felt sinful and so you diverted your eyes to the silks he wore as covering. They pooled around his feet, a mass of gleaming red and the leering silver stitched skulls of his office. Without delay, you padded towards him and stopped. 

“Sit.” He commanded further, and you obeyed. Awkwardly so in the effort to not look at him directly. Now he was regarding you, almost curiously so. You could feel it as a near physical pressure of his power. You refused to relent, however, your medication was working. It had to. 

“You are sanguine.” He finally announced. “The ritual is to begin shortly.” 

As Rhacelus has mentioned, there was a hefty goblet of wine hovering on a contragrav coaster just feet from his hands. It did not have the stink of blood about it as you’d expected. Strange. However, the thought immediately triggered a response from Mephiston. 

“I…prefer only the blood of the willing. Drawn myself, if at all possible.” He spoke, and without thinking you replied. 

“I am willing.”

He paused. For a moment you thought you’d made a mistake but a flicker of amusement was there, pressing into your skull. The Lord of Death gestured. Soon, his wasted servitor came fluttering over on bone thin wings baring an ornate dagger. “Then come.”

Hiding a shiver, you did so. Ice cold fingers carefully dragged your bare hand from your sleeve and drew the blade across the back of your wrist. The pain was very momentary, the slice so fine it felt as if it would heal in a few hours. It was enough. Your blood dripped from the wound and into the goblet. It colored the already deep liquid nearly black. He drank almost immediately, still gripping your hand firmly. The change in him was instant. Cold flesh warmed, the red of his irises glowing faintly. His lips moved and you spotted the sharp gleam of his Angel’s teeth. You were unable to hide a small moan as he leaned forward and licked the cut clean. Its soft sting quickly brought with it an embarrassing warmth throughout your entire body, nearly going weak. Mephiston had not yet released you, but his grip loosened greatly. He was breathing hard. The scent of wine and blood. You were panting too. 

“Do you consent?” He asked. You didn’t need any context. He was projecting the most interesting feelings into your mind, but left enough room to leave. If you so wished. You did not.

“I do.” You whimpered and that was that. 

A moment later you were pulled forward and his tall, long frame bent over you. Unsure where to put your arms and hands, they curled up against his bare chest, feeling the all too real twin thumps of his hearts. Then the soft prickle of his teeth as he dragged the hood down and smothered your neck. Mephiston’s hands were soon very, very busy. Fabric came off of you readily with recently warmed flesh dancing towards places only you had touched. He waited, for a moment, but your impatient wiggling spurred him on. Deft fingers found themselves between your naked legs, probing and experimenting. Oh, he had done this before. Many times, apparently. 

Not that you could argue, nor ask, because eventually you would forget everything except the feel of him. The orgasm, when it hit, shook you hard. Mephiston voiced something under his breath, sucking in air, doing much the same. You had not touched him at all, yet your emotions and sensations fueled it, somehow. Between your orgasm and his, the Lord of Death’s skin became hot, almost burning under your hands. 

It was a welcome sensation in the cold, cold ship.


	10. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Postcoital revelations. Secrets coming to light. An opportunity of intimacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter but none the less substantial I think. I really needed to hash out some character development between reader and Rhacelus.

Waking up was sluggish and mildly painful. You hadn’t realized you’d even been asleep, and so you started the moment your eyes focused. A body fresh from orgasm bunched up, muscles twitching. It hurt, but the sensation slowly melted from you limbs, leaving only sheer confusion and scattered postcoital bliss. Your face was pressed not into a pillow, but against barely cushioned silk that smelt strangely masculine. Coming to realize it was in fact the fabric Mephiston worn about his waist brought on a little more shock than you could handle at the moment. 

Shooting bolt upright, you found your surroundings were exactly the same as before, save for a lack of its master. Mephiston left only his clothing for you to rest on. You and him had…brought one another to a very quick and haphazard orgasm. You just committed a very, very intimate act with him. Honestly you weren’t sure what reaction was more appropriate. Embarrassment or pride? Not like anything was winning out currently. 

Numbly, you came to stare at the small, wet patch between your legs, darkening the silk. Darkening your robes, too. Face flushing, embarrassment won. A small, barely audible sob drifted from your lips, coming as quickly as it went. Then you were fine. Strangely so. It was like popping a sore joint. The release was so suddenly relieving you could only sit there for a while longer, blinking. No panic attacks. No thoughts of shame…currently. No depression. 

“Well that…happened.” Was as good a description as ever. 

Totally naked, you stood and gathered the silk around your form. No one was in the chamber that you could see but some form of decency kept you clad in something until you could wrestle back into your sweaty robe. It too smelt masculine and your loins fought the urge to want more. Too, your hands worked the large mass of silk into a suitable fold, placing it on the carpet. 

What now? 

“What now indeed…” You wondered out loud. The sound of it echoed strangely, as if the chamber was bigger than it looked. Deciding it was not the time or place to ask those sort of questions, you scurried for a perceived exit. One eventually materialized, as if sensing your need to get the hell out of there. Fabric soled shoes slapped softly against bare black stone, eyes fixed ahead. Unable to see the massive sapphire hand when it reached out and yanked you from the hall and into a shadowed alcove. A second hand bunched up a fistful of robe, stuffing it against your face to stifle your frustrated moan. 

Rhacelus was hunched over almost double, hiding you from view from…what exactly? Vidiens, soon, was heard noisily flapping down the hall. The man cursed and let you free the moment the rangy servitor was gone. 

“I-I can explain!” You uttered the moment you were free, but Rhacelus once again stuffed your face with another wad of cloth. You batted uselessly at him as you were hastily dragged some distance away. Not painfully, somehow, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. More exasperated than frightened, you hold on as best as you could until the librarian finally stopped running and put you down. This time you remained silent, but cross. If Rhacelus was offended by your expression, it was hidden behind the cringe that spread across his dark features. 

“He mated with you didn’t he?”

“I…a…a form of it. yes.” Immediately your voice was reduced to an embarrassed mutter, face flushing hard enough to bake bread upon it. Rhacelus made a noise that was very much like an annoyed hiss, dragging his gauntleted hand across his features until the skin pulled. 

“Not again!”

“W-What do you mean not again!”

A hand still covered his face, one gleaming eye glared blue. “I don’t think you’re drunk enough for this, scholiast.” 

“I’d rather not, thank you.”

He really, really did not look ready to explain, but he had you cornered like an animal. To back down now would have been a blow to his pride, you knew. And so you were going to rattle the answers out of him one way or another. 

Eventually he seemed to come to, looking everywhere but directly at you. Which, in a way, was a little scary. 

“Ah…well, for one you aren’t the first. Or even the second, or third.”

“And?” You asked. This information you had already parsed for…various reasons. Experience being the more prominent. 

“Of your family that is.”

“…come again?” You squawked. That little tidbit hadn’t occurred to you at all. 

Now he was gesturing, trying to look as dismissive as possible without being out of place. Which…did not work. He was terribly out of place. “It started with Imola, and then her children, and…well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

Unsure if the lump in your throat was rage or shock, the sound you made the moment you opened your mouth somehow ended up being both. 

“Aye, that was about my reaction too.”

“But WHY?”

“Shh! I’ll tell you, but if you speak a word of this to anyone, I’ll do to you what I’ve always threatened that useless boy Antros with. I’ll turn you into a septic tank. With just enough brain left to feel it.” 

As you went gray with the idea of it, he just as quickly brushed it aside, jabbering uneasily. If you weren't on your medications you likely would have begun screaming. 

“There is…a barrier that exists between his brothers that ins’t there with mortals. Our brother hate and spite him but they aren’t able to fully understand why. The fact that you’re asking that question right now only hammers that fact home, aye?”

“A-Aye…”

“So there are times where he will…simply not talk. Not to me, not to Antros, or Dante, but to a trusted thrall. They’re good at listening, your kind. They don’t try to go through the business of understanding him.”

“Well, he…my master…didn’t do much talking.”

Rhacelus cringed. “He gets lonely. And…pent up.”

“Oh, God Emperor. I wasn’t…aware he had those sort of needs.”

“Normally we don’t.” Rhacelus pointed out heavily, as if yanking your mind from the gutter was an obligation. “But Lord Mephiston…the physical and mental changes he’s gone through over the centuries transformed him mind, body and soul. It stripped him of a lot of old dispositions ingrained in him since his first ascension. Something more…primitive takes its place. Leaves room for the rage. But also for…other needs. Needs only mortals can really fulfill.” 

Letting this information percolate, you asked. “This is nothing he would admit I assume?”

Rhacelus shook his head. “Of course not. I doubt he really understands much himself. Ever the mystery, even to me.”

In the back of your head, you recalled a lot of off-hand comments from Antros on the subject, but mindfully kept them out of your mouth. “Then…uh…what am to do?”

“If you’re willing? See to his needs. Let him talk. A lot of it will make little sense, but it keeps him from traveling to darker places.”

Darker places. Your body shivered. Rhacelus nodded, seemingly pleased you understood even as the old fears crept back into your belly. “I…I promise that if I hear…anything unusual I’ll let you know.”

He seemed both touched and doubtful at that, his stone edged jaw working thoughtfully. “My thanks, but keep most of it to yourself. Even to me. I would hate to have to clip your tongue.”

The threat was casual, but still as crystal clear as his eyes. You took an instinctive step back, nodding rapidly. 

“Why…tell me all of this? Why not just do exactly that?”

Something in his face looked distinctly regretful, as if he hadn’t intended to speak that harshly, or threaten quite so easily. “Listen, child. I’m old. I’m a grouch of the highest caliber and I’ve seen things that nearly made me insane. But I am not a thoughtless brute. No proper Angel is. I…you deserve to know. You can’t be kept in the dark like this.”

You weren’t entirely sure if you could handle the light, but nodded anyways, nervously turning away from him. “Thank you, my lord.”

He grunted, but not unkindly. One hand gingerly pulled the hood of your robes about your head. “Get along now. I’ve said enough.”

You didn’t turn back as you ran, almost stumbling down the hall.


	11. Blood Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skirting the edge of a warp storm, you experience fevered dreams born of your most intimate desires. Were they dreams, or en extension of reality? Only a blood drop keeps you anchored this night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning! Penetrative sex and seeing things that aren't really there. Totally consensual if all together a little disturbing.

Eventually you started to get used to the gentle but constant vibrations of a ship living and breathing below your feet. Thralls who had been on the Blood Caller their whole lives sometimes spoke to her, you’ve heard. They treated the ship as if she were a Mother. A thing that had the ability to care for them. All of this seemed strange, but you were willing to believe it to be true. But lately you were noticing a general amount of…unease among the veteran Thralls of the ship. They weren’t willing to address their concerns directly, which was more than a little disturbing. 

After a while though you started to feel it too. In how the ship leant and creaked as if pulled about by outside forces or tossed about by etheric winds you couldn’t comprehend. You received no warning or notice just yet, but the energy of the place became cramped and tense. 

Even the isolated scriptorium room you had acquired for your purposes seemed distracted. Three other scholiasts were there with you, scratching away at endless sheets of velum with that you thought were nervous twitches. One of them in particular was worse, their face thrown into the heaviest of shadows, their breath seemed almost…labored. If you stared too long, their shape distorted in the dark. There was a sigh of relief when you growled and elbowed them. The spell was broken. They gasped and looked down at the mess of scratches across the now wasted page and cursed. 

“What’s going on?” You asked, both nervous and assertive. So many had dodged the same question. 

Your companions looked as if were about to do the same, sharing a fevered glance, but then relented. One of them must had noticed you were new and started to speak up despite light protests from the others.

“Warp storm.” It pained them to say it. “We’re skirting the edge of it, but…”

The largest of them, a broad shouldered example of humanity, grumbled and stuffed a hand into their face. “The Emperor protects.”

“The Emperor protects.” The others said immediately, including yourself and the silenced one. 

You heard enough. 

The rest of the day was spent with baited breath, shades flickering in and out of your vision and sounds that had no source bouncing through the steel halls. You stayed with the other scholiasts for a while, but with tensions hiked up, they gradually started to vanish to their own isolated corners. Probably for the better. You’d taken your dose for the day but still felt the buzz of anxiety ruining your concentration despite your assignments. You might have felt guilty were this not directly translated across thousands upon thousands of other souls. 

Throne, even the ship was reacting. It went from sudden, soft shudders to twitching and then jerking. One such jolt sent a power surge through the hall in which you strolled, stealing the light from the overhead lumes for a moment, popping the circuits of the angel-faced speaker. It blurted things you never wanted to hear again and then…and then it melted. 

You ran. 

You stopped only when you collided with something the color of burnished sapphire. Antros studied you before you could yelp and run off again. Both hands were firm, gripping maybe just a bit tighter than necessary. His eyes, the pale blue that they were, had deepened in their sockets and moved as if briefly glaring at things only he could see. This lasted only seconds, however, before a smile transposed itself over his scarred feature and he focused fully on you.

“Be at ease.” He muttered, releasing you. “Be at ease.”

The words had as much weight as substance. They gripped your brain in strange ways, forcefully pulling the panic and disorientation from your skull like yanking a silk from your pocket. Honestly, you had not realized how far you must have ran outside of your designated sector, or that Antros was most certainly outside of his, meeting you in the in-between. He started to gingerly drag you down the hall.

“Steel yourself. We’re only at the edge, but if we had to plunge into the maelstrom…” He paused, wondering if he should even be telling you this. “I would advise not to trust what you see. Don’t listen to familiar voices calling your name. We’re largely safe here, behind the Gellarfield, but the mind is fickle and unguarded.”

Unsure how to respond or even that you should, you swallowed and nodded hard. He still had ahold of you, sparks of power lighting his eyes from behind the sockets. The skin around his sclera became vaguely translucent, ghostly blue lights turning fine veins and folds into ugly shadows. He seemed completely unaware of it too and in the near darkness of the corridor his skulled seemed to be a phantasm aglow with inner light. You really, really did not want to be looking at the intimate anatomy of a Librarian thanks to a sudden surge in the warp. You wanted to throw up. 

It throbbed, flickering like the guts of a lightning storm then…then it was gone. The overhead lume powered back on to full brilliance, throwing him into a halo of silver that, for a brief moment looked like a crown of feathers, then vanished. You could see perfectly well again and his face was as normal as you had ever seen it. The effect was startlingly similar to the way darkness played about Mephiston’s being. Doubt gripped you immediately, but you remembered what Antros said. Trust not what you see or hear.

Antros, for his part, seemed not to be aware of what had happened at all. Instead his hand was fishing around the heavy gold chains rattling against his waist. He tugged hard and a single bloodstone was pulled away. The gleam it possessed was the most holy thing you had seen all day and with as much shock as you could handle, you found him pressing it into your open palm.

“Take it.” He said, almost cheerfully. “A token. Lord Mephiston would have surely given you something if not me. Rhacelus, however…” The man chortled at his own joke. “Sadly I can’t be here much longer. I’ve an assignment deeper in this subsector.”

“A mission?” You guessed, nearly blubbering. The stone was teardrop shaped and incredibly heavy for it’s size which was not exactly small either. 

He nodded slowly, a smile creeping onto his face. “Aye. We’ve only been in the void for a month but the storms are gathering and it’s my duty to be the outrider and information gatherer. I think I might have scried something just within the next system…”

He trailed off. Again, the strange halo of silver feather crowned his white scalp, just for a moment. It took a lot of effort to ignore it. 

“But I will be back. I promise.”

That night was just this side of hell. Sleep heavily eluded most of your sector and from your cell you could hear the strained moans of your fellow thralls. Some were pained, others…pleasurable. The sounds were utterly unbecoming and you all knew it, but could not help it. Waking nightmares clung to the back of your eyes, superimposing images not just into your vision but directly in your mind's eye. Such fantastic and horrible things you would see, laying sweating and crying in your cot with the blood drop clutched in your hands so tightly your flesh conceived around the priceless trinket. 

Then he finally did come, unbidden…

Lord Mephiston was a pale phantom draped in red that seemed to flow from him like crimson smoke. So sheer you could see the flawless planes of his body moving as he opened the hatch of your cell and ducked inside. So tall was he that he had to hunch over just to look at you. Oh, Throne his eyes were crystal blue and decorated with tiny motes of light. So bright as he that just his flesh threw your dark little cell into luminescence. With him came the most powerful surge of arousal you’d ever felt. The succulent burn went directly to your loins and stirred you to life almost immediately. Almost disturbing it was so quick. 

He made no sound as his bulk knelt down and reached for you, pulling away the simple blanket and then your simple robes, leaving you laying on your back exposed and fully aroused. There was no protest from you at all. You knew, somehow, that this was a little wrong but right now you wanted nothing more than to have him touch you. And so he did. Wide palms smoothed over your skin, leaving behind chill tingles. Moisture immediately sprang from your loins, trailing between your legs and onto the fabric padding your cot. You knew without a doubt you would cum the moment he laid that hand between your legs. And you did.

It was almost painful, sudden and unsatisfying and left you wanting so, so much more. You could not speak but it seems like you did not have to. For in that moment the smokey red fabric he wore was shucked and he was naked and glorious. Too was he incredibly hard, cock beautiful and so very erect. You had never gotten to see him like this before. He was utterly clean of hair, already leaking fat beads of pre-cum even as he swooped down and nipped you. 

Throne, his teeth were so sharp. Tiny pricks of blood bloomed where his fangs had been, wailing when his cool tongue found one and then both of your nipples. You thought for sure would cum again, clutching your legs together hard but still his left hand worked even as the right forced your knees apart again. 

Please, you began to think, nearly overwhelmed entirely, take me. You were so very, very hot and his body so very cold…

He hissed, for a moment the very image of ecstasy. He heard you, felt your desire and would see it sated. His face, totally placid, staring into yours as you struggled with the perfect surges of heat ruining your body. You felt, rather than saw him moving your legs apart. Felt, rather than saw pushing his hips closer…

Throne, that delightful pop of pressure nearly sent you over the edge again. How he was able to fit on your tiny cot and why you weren’t able to move was a question beyond your comprehension right now. All you wanted, all you felt, was his thick cock inside of you. Mephiston was growling, expression pinching into lovely effort as he controlled his slow plunge into your most intimate reaches. 

You had, somewhere in your mind, expected it to be painful. To feel the tight stretch such a girth must have put you through, but all you noticed was the satisfying fullness. Then the electric friction as he moaned and began to thrust. Huge hands gently tugged your pelvis and ass to rest over his braced thighs, putting you at the perfect angle for his rhythm. Mephiston literally towered over you, his cock peeking out of you with each slow thrust. He was being so very careful with his favorite thrall. Each push and pinch arched your spine and teased noises out of your throat. And you were so very, very wet now. Leaking and clutching all down his shaft and head. 

It was so very different from the last time he’d shared a moment like this with you. There was still the look of a calculating predator deep in his eyes, but gone was the primal urge. Replaced with a beatific face and body movements that sent a lighting storm of pleasure through your pelvis and core to the point where you felt as if your back might snap with all the pressure. 

Faster, you begged in your mind. Deeper. Harder. You wanted to be consumed. To be his and only his. This seemed to pleased him, a smile that could only be smug appearing on his lips. He gave you want you asked. With a gasp of his own, his cock completely vanished inside of you and held. It wad the only time you felt an ache, and even then it only did well to feed into pleasure rapidly building in your core. Your nipples were so very hard, face flushed and sweating…

It only took a few of his rapid, micro-thrusts before you shouted towards the ceiling and came. Heralded by a rush of fluid and the soreness of tight, clenched muscles pulsing around him. Once more he pushed all the way inside of you, eyes spilling flame as his cock spilled liquid heat into your inner reaches. That alone extended your orgasm, feeling it within your whole body. Your mind reeled, tendons popping delightfully as the pressure peaked then released. 

You got to see Mephiston’s gloriousness withdrawing from you, shining in a thick coating of his cum. He was still leaking, unbelievably hard and so very hungry…

His mouth snapped open, an overgrown forest of fangs and flame…

There was no Lord Mephiston. The Chief Librarian simply wasn’t there anymore. You were alone. Naked and wet from sweat and sex fluids. The hard chill of the room brought gooseflesh to your over-warm skin, your mind tingling with the sparks of afterglow. On your chest laid the bloodstone, faintly red in the pitch darkness of your cell. 

You laid your hand over it and gasped. 

You got little sleep that night.


	12. Come Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shame is shared, even by those you consider to be godly. Finally, you find the strength to truly understand yourself and the nature of the people around you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, since the corona virus is keeping everyone trapped inside I thought I owed it myself and others to push out two chapters today. Last one is almost purely smut, this one is comforting if slightly distressing. Small warning for that! One central character is totally nameless for the fact that they are NOT a canon character. But one creative to be a device for the reader and the story. They will be back, but might remain nameless for now.
> 
> If you want a bit more smut, however, I would check out Curiosity. The male version of that will be written and posted some other time.

Terrified and confused thralls all came out of their fever dreams at the same time, hundreds of heads peering out of cell doors defensively held ajar. The disquieting feeling in the pit of your stomach had gone but your head and loins still felt fuzzy and used. Somewhere, sometime, the warp storm caressing the very flank the Blood Caller abated. A few faces were less afraid and more tired. Veteran thralls who had lived on this ship their whole lives and were at least somewhat used to such things. They scrubbed at sore eyes, adjusted clenched jaws and started herding you and yours to the common areas. You went only because any cognition and reason had fled your mind in the wake of that body quaking orgasm. Your eyes, however, were locked on the horrifying image of Lord Mephiston. Naked with a mouth of fire and teeth, twin sapphires burning in deep sockets. Hair a halo of whipped lighting… 

Throne, you were fighting back another anxious arousal. Thankfully the common areas were not far, following the stream of thralls down into the wash rooms. Scraping oil and sweat from still sensitive skin hurt but the experience was grounding. You began to focus. The world around you started to clear up as if you’d been seeing it through a pall of mist or smoke. Everything was as it should have been. No melted speakers, no busted lumes, no voices or voids opening up in the corners of the chamber. 

You clambered out feeling fresh. Somehow well rested as you could be at the moment. The reimposition of reality had a soothing effect apparently. Thralls were recovering, chattering, wearing relieved but empty expressions. Somewhere, deeper within the Blood Caller, a heavy bell rung. You felt it in your soul as much as in your ears. It was a call. It rang again and then once more. Even the veteran thralls had stopped, staring at the ceiling and then at the speakers expectantly. They knew what was happening even before the vox crackled with static, birthing a voice so deep and distorted it sounded as if an Imperial Titan was given voice. 

“Come to the great chapel. Your souls are to be judged.” 

Just those simple words sent a storm of panic and grief spread through the gathered thralls. Older thralls shouted over the noise, shoving and giving orders but it wasn’t until a full three units of armsmen clattered into common room that the storm broke. You heard the sharp snap of a stun baton colliding with a shoulder or back. The pained curse of the thrall as they went down. You whimpered and huddled in closer, allowing the press of bodies to carry you as much as guide you. No one was dead, but between the tension and daymares everything joyful you had experienced in the vision of your naked master completely vanished. 

Marching further and further into the bowels of the Blood Caller’s Librarius, you all emerged not into shadowed chambers or halls, but rather into a grand space that seemed fit to hold every single Librarian in the chapter, and indeed that seemed to be its purpose. Red burnished woods dominated the basilica, heavy with the scent of incense and sacred oils. Strangely deprived of the scent of blood or magic, a few of your fellows gave voice to your inner thoughts. It felt sterile, like an Apothecary’s chambers but far, far holier. You walked upon rich crimson rugs flattened thin by boots far larger than your own, and a realization came to you. 

They were going to be actively screened for corruption in the aftermath of the warp storm’s temptations. Apparently the scope of it had been so great and terrible your souls were in question. Guilt unlike any you had ever felt put its barbed fist in your gut and refused to leave. Your medicines had been left in your cell and you very much wanted to vomit. Perhaps the only comfort was that everyone else felt the same. 

Looking up was the only thing that helped currently. Swaying in the constant, dusty current of the air scrubbers were thousands upon thousands of war banners, each a varying shade of red or blue depicting terrific and terrible battles in the Blood Caller’s great history. More than several were dedicated to Lord Mephiston and even great Dante. A few were sprinkled with blood, a reminder than each one had seen war at some point and the battle brother who held it aloft likely shed their holy blood for it. 

It was…humbling. As you looked closer, tears lightly streaming from blurry eyes, you could make out the domed fresco of Sanguinius that you knew would be up there. He was there, in all chapels, in one form or another. This one was stamped in gold foil and threw shimmering rays onto your face as you strode away from it. 

Coughing and clutching at one another, the soft ruckus among your fellows gradually calmed. It was not from any sort of comfort, no, but out of a grave and instinctual respect for this place. 

And, too, because of the sight of the one who lurked among you all. He stood waist and chest above any regular human and a full head above any regular Astartes. You knew he was Primaris from the make of his armor, and a chaplain by the make of his helm. It leered at you for a moment, the lenses emerald green, before his gaze lifted and he stared at everyone at once. 

“Kneel, children of Baal.” He intoned.

That was all it took. Thralls of all size and shape made room for one another and got down on their knees, heads bowed. Your scenery became nothing more than a cave of heavy fabric peering down at your thighs. But you did not need to look up to feel the tension or know what the chaplain was doing. His crozius, a massive blood stone carved into a perfect teardrop crowned with wings, passed around the outskirts of your gathering. The maul was not activated but still it seemed to buzz as if it were nothing more than an extension of the welder’s night black armor. Those closest to the maul and his slowly trodding feet retreated slightly as if they feared being stepped on. 

You, however, forced yourself to stay perfectly still. Too you wanted to pray but the stagnant silence might otherwise be disturbed. You wouldn’t dare. 

At some point the armsmen had left. Their job here was redundant considering the master that stalked forth to take their place. He made his rounds, as quiet and menacing as a stalking fire scorpion and far more deadly. Someone’s resolve broke and they began to sob, their pain stirring the silence. 

“Do you fear me, or do you fear sin?” He asked, suddenly. He was speaking to the sobbing thrall. 

Desperately they tried to pinch their aguish off at the throat but their reply was hazy and hurt. 

“I fear judgment!” They wailed, giving voice to all humans present. 

Then there was the sound of scrambling feet, bodies by the tens fighting to get out of his way as the chaplain slowly strode forth. He was heading for the thrall, who was unable to disguise themselves. You managed to get out of the way in time, watching as onyx greaves passed by your face, leaning in and watching like several others into the corridor of bodies you created. 

Many of you expected a strike, you really did. He stopped just a foot or so away from the thrall, who by now was so terrified they had all but flattened themselves into the carpet, invisible under their duty robes. 

“Is it judgement you fear…” With a buzz of well oiled motors he knelt before the terrified thrall. “Or the visages that showed your truest desires?”

Immediately a buzz of unease and doubt spread through the gathering, but all refused to give it voice. Not when they were so close to the chaplain. You felt yourself swallowing what tasted like stomach bile. Those closest to you clung to you and one another. It helped, but only slightly. 

You could not see much save for the chaplain’s relic strewn backpack, but you heard it when the thrall stopped crying. 

“To err is human.” He rumbled heavily. The vox ruined his tone but you swore it sounded oddly…soft. “The warp, especially here in the Librarius, is like an infection. You can not control it as much as you can’t control the passage of contaminates through your body. Would you blame yourself for becoming infected when exposure is all but inevitable?”

You realize, then, that the chaplain had laid his massive hand upon the shoulder of the thrall. There was no threat here, just the invitation of guidance. He hauled the thrall to their knees and held them aloft, then bade the rest to sit up. A sea of peering, curious and scared eyes rested on him. 

“The warp is an infection.” He repeated. “It kills as well as any virus, but those who survive and purge the germ are all the stronger for it.” He held the bladed maul to the light, where Sanguinius’s domed portrait could see. All eyes locked on the harsh gleam of gold and red. “Tell me, blood thralls, are you stronger for it or will you let this virus ruin your mind?”

At first there was only a ripple of noise. The he repeated himself, the sound a proud growl. The ripple became a wave. Even you voiced your agreement despite the tightness in your throat. He wasn’t entirely pleased, but stood regardless and moved back down the corridor that still held to herald his exit. You watched as he lowered his weapon, sheathing it to a hidden strap under his heavy leather robes. His footsteps rang loud as boots left carpet and found black veined marble, ascending steps leading up to a low asp. It was all new. The swarm had gotten into the ship and torn down nearly everything at floor level, including the reliquary normally found here and at the very back of this chamber. That it was empty now save for a plain garnet slab seemed obscene. 

But, you noticed, there was something sitting there. A single skull helm, split clean in half where a scything talon had punctured the left eye lens, killing the wearer. The chaplain looked at it a moment, then addressed the gathering once more.

“I am not a child of Baal.” He declared with some measure of shame. “I came you from Lord Guilliamn’s Indominous Crusade. I was not among you on the walls, nor on the surface of sacred Baal until the very last moment.”

Another general mutter of surprise disturbed the silence. Some, you thought, sounded mistrustful. 

“I understand my brothers feel the same as you. That I am a poor substitute for those that came before. That I am an inheritor of death, of people who aren’t of my blood. A replacement”

More noises of uneasy and doubt guttered forth. You growled and elbowed someone who actually snorted. They looked ready to fight, but something in your eyes froze them.

“I know what it is like to feel guilt.” He continued. “I will never be a sacred child of Baal as you all are, despite the colors I wear. Do I consider Sanguinius any less my Father or my duties to you any less sacred? No.” He tapped his chest plate, girded with bone. “You are so few that any and all have become precious. More so that many of you were born after the invasion. That a chaplain guards your soul personally speaks both of the loss and value you all have now.”

He paused again, but this time the crowd remained utterly quiet. Not a word. They were curious now. Touched even. 

“I am not a child of Baal.” He repeated, softly. “And so I am in awe at any who are. My brothers, you, this ship. It is precious to me. Your souls are my responsibility to safe keep. If any one of you were to fall here it would be my blame. Not yours.”

Beside you, the thrall you had elbowed looked aside and down, muttering. Many did not know what to think yet and you could pick up sharp, whispered dialogues between groups who may or may not have ever met before now. 

“Are there really so few of us?” Another thrall asked of you and found yourself glad for the conversation. 

“There are.” You nodded. “I was only…maybe one of less than a hundred remaining in my sector of the Librarius on Baal.” 

The balked at that. “Throne! That’s barely half our number here!” This thrall, you later discovered, was born here on the Blood Caller and had been serving the Librarius here all their life, like you had on the surface. 

Talking trailed off. Many still felt shaken and so sought counseling from the chaplain in staggered, very small group. At some point you wanted to speak to him, but not now. Probably not for a good while. You needed your medications and while the conversation was pleasant your social energy was drained. 

Without much else to say, you and a few other broke from the gathering and left back the way you came. No armsmen blocked your way, for which you were grateful. The journey was long. You had never been down here before. That was largely because it used to belong exclusively to your masters, but something after the invasion had changed all of that. And now that you were able to see clearly, there was indeed damage even to this most scried and grand of ships. She bore scars internally, great lengths of arm thick welds where entire sections of decking and bulkhead were stripped open and left to bleed. 

Pockets of metal patched up where concussive forces had blown gaping holes in the stone. Some lumes and speakers were newer than others. So many scars, so much blood…

So, so many things that to you were in the past, yet continued to wound and impact you and those around you. It was surreal. Your thoughts strayed to your mother. To Mort, your father. The bite marks lining his bald scalp. To the emptiness in your master’s eyes. The awe the chaplain had for those born on Baal. That he was not from Baal himself yet still called him a Blood Angel. The conflict he must have been going through. 

When you got back to your cell you vomited into you waste ben for a good solid minute. It was a disgusting moment of self awareness you hoped would go away with purging the build up of stomach bile. This proved to be untrue. So you shut yourself up, swigged some lukewarm water and took a half dose just to be sure.

It didn’t feel good. You didn’t feel good and your urge to talk to anyone about it melted like the pill in your gut. Why couldn’t things just be normal. What was normal? Was it when you were given tasks like any other thrall, or was it when your poor mother was still around, screaming at the shadows? Why did you still miss her when you had but maybe ten years with her, most of them tainted with paranoia and darkness?

Were you really so angry at her? What had even happened to her anyways? 

Ah. So this is what anger felt like. It was…oddly pure. It was better than the gut numbing anxiety or the tear inducing frustration you were used to. This time it was a fire boiling in your blood, strong and hot. The medication put all else at ease but that. 

You sat there for maybe an hour, thinking. Sighing out a breath, you put your hands to the deck and felt Blood Caller vibrate a steady, unbothered rhythm. She was well. All was well.

For now.

You returned to the master’s personal library in short order. He had called you but if you were to be honest you were heading there anyways. All thoughts of the pale apparition that brought you to orgasm were gone, leaving a void of traumatized disinterest. Unable to hide it even if you wanted to, you confessed your sins to Lord Mephiston.

He closed his eyes with titanic slowness, nodding just as sluggishly. His own eyes were distant, solid orbs of red that looked into other depths, never directly at you. Still, his hand was hovering on your shoulder, as cold as ever. “So many things. The unborn will always call out to a lonely soul, scholiast.” 

You nodded. “Aye, as the chaplain said.” You were surprised at how hollow you sounded. 

“Take his words to heart.” 

“I will.” You sighed, realizing the conversation was frustrating you. It was not him per say. Never him. Yet you could feel his red gaze assessing you. Your aura. 

“You are not sanguine. You should have stayed and spoken to the chaplain.” If he was disappointed you were grateful he hid it.

“What I had to ask is…he doesn’t have the answers for.”

“You are wondering about your mother again.”

You went stiff, dropping the book in your arms on the table. “Master, I…”

“Sit.” 

Doing so, you felt him lean over the table, peering at you in ways you couldn’t imagine. Eventually, he sighed.

“At some point, she was going through treatment and screening. Her mind was lost, but her soul was pure so she was eventually transferred to one of the redundant facilities to treat the mentally compromised. This was the only time I was able to speak with her. A year later I found she had…died. No other reason save for losing her will to live.”

Of all the answers you might have guessed, that was close to it as you had come. Your reaction could have been so much worse. Instead you only let out a breath. “I guess that’s what I would have done, in her situation.”

“I would hope not.”

“My lord?”

Mephiston shook his head. “I want you to live. Not…just for myself, but for the continuation of this chapter. To serve is your greatest duty and you do it well. If every thrall were to to succumb to their woes , right this moment, the chapter would be dead.”

Shivering, you had little choice but to nod. He was right. Not a single person was left unscathed rather they were born before or after the invasion. The only thing that set them apart was how willing they were to survive. Large, cold hands felt the edges of your jawline, gingerly tracing a thin vein feeding into your neck. 

He looked…hungry. But not in the way he had during that last, vivid flash of terror. This hungry was purely desire. Were you feeling sounder of mind you would have said yes. As is, you turned your head, kissing his palm in supplication. 

“I will speak to the chaplain, my lord. I promise. Then I’ll come back to you.”

“See that you do.”


	13. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions lead to awkward conversations and struggles to understand your own fellow humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still under quarantine and still more chapters to write. So far many of the characters are pretty nameless and genderless but they're developing a personality complex ties to Reader. There are going to a few named and gendered character through out, but those are references. ;)
> 
> Also upping the quality of my chapters to a minimum of 3,000 words. Editing might still be spotty but I want longer chapters to help move plot and character along without a terrible amount of filler.
> 
> Hopefully everyone who's new and not canon still fits with the story well enough. 
> 
> Thoughts so far? Who do you imagine the reader being?

Returning to the grand chapel took time. Not because of the distance, but from a lack of direction and the near constant need to dodge under the elbows of your masters. A trio of the newer breed, these…Primaris congregated in the halls leading to the chapel. You’d never seen more than one of them up close before. They were exactly as you heard them described. Towering warriors a full head and a half above even the tallest examples of the old breed. Such as Lord Mephiston himself. Even the shortest of them would have to look down to converse with Lord Rhacelus. Thus, you were surprised to see them looking rather…lost. Youthfully so. They all had the confident baring of fresh blood fitting into their scout armor but with the eyes of school boys and the armor of intercessors. From what you could see they were stopping every thrall they could, trying to wrangle information out of them or otherwise trying to make conversation. Which in of itself was a little strange.

“My lords?” You ventured to ask.

The trio looked up immediately. All of them were bare headed without a single mark on their face. Unblooded warriors? Before you could make any further assessments, a crooked finger summoned you over.

“Thrall, could you explain a few things?” The one who inquired looked only slightly older than the other two. “Do you know our destination? We’ve tried to inquire among the Librarians but they’ve remained fantastically silent.” 

“I…I have to admit I don’t know either. I only serve Lord Mephiston as his personal scribe. Not his…his navigator. W-wait, you weren’t told either? Have you tried asking Lord Rhacelus or Antros?” 

The one behind him looked a little crestfallen. His was the most unusual of the three. Thin in the face and festooned with long copper hair and eyes an off-putting shade of green or blue. You couldn’t tell clearly. Surely not from Baal. “We tried, but were brushed off, more or less.”

The last shrugged. He was far taller, but indeed the youngest and clearly the only one who looked to be Baalite native. “We suspect the veteran battle brothers just don’t like us.”

Well, you certainly weren’t expecting them to be so…so frank. “Why do you think that? Lord Rhacelus can be…iron willed, but…”

The red head looked sidelong at the eldest, but didn’t receive a reply. He gathered himself up and spoke instead. “You heard the chaplain’s sermon? Hardly any of us are from Baal. And very few still went through any stages of scout training before earning our armor. Only Aphelion here, and he was on the walls during the invasion as a boy.” Red head referred to the especially tall Primaris.

Your face might have paled a little. In reality, many of the Primaries raised from Baal after the invasion where likely just a few decades older than you. No wonder they looked so young. None of them had seen active combat yet? Maybe a few from the Indominus Crusade, but how could you tell?

“I…I can’t speak for my masters.” You attempted. “But I’m sure once you’ve had time to prove yourselves they might come around?”

The eldest shook his head. “Doubtful. They see us as replacements. But we are still sons of the Angel regardless of what they think.”

Red head didn’t look so sure, but Aphelion nodded. As the one son of Baal among many, he was actively defending his younger, more distantly related brothers. “They don’t know what it was like, seeing the wall through the eyes of a human. But I remember. Many of the older thralls here remember too. More than that, I remember what it was like to be afraid. I think that makes me closer to the Angel than any of them.” 

Strange that, given his name…but you declined to make a comment of it. You weren’t expecting battle brothers needing to defend themselves from…other battle brothers. It all seemed preposterous. Beyond the mannered teachings of the Great Angel, but these were changing times, you supposed. The idea that standards held strong for over ten thousand years were no longer relevant proved to be more than a little jarring. You had not gotten to see Baal as it was before the invasion, but you felt the wounds in your soul nonetheless. You were born of the ancient blood after all…even if these souls weren’t. Maybe…maybe that’s why the older breed thought lesser of them. They didn’t remember was it was like before the fear and the scars. They had less to lose, in their minds? 

Oh, but that was such a horrible thing to think. Red head looked a little distressed, as if he’d been privy to your inner thoughts. Or perhaps he’d read the suspicious furrow in your brows. 

But, before you could retreat further into your robes, Aphelion broke the silence. “My thanks, thrall. At least you have confirmed the idea the we are indeed wasting our time here.” 

You did not dare think on it too much, flinching slightly, but Aphelion sounded disappointed. Rather with you or the older brothers of the chapter you did not know. Red head shared a confused, resigned look with you and then the eldest before following the sole Baalite out of the grand hall. A score of thralls scattered in their wake. You remained rooted to the floor, processing what just happened. You had a feeling you weren’t supposed to know the secret civil war going on between the old and the new. You just knew it. It would…have to be mentioned to the chaplain. Maybe. Maybe not.

And so when you did reenter the grand chapel it was vastly emptier than last time. Colder, too. The dry chill of it stirred in your bones as your padded leather boots swept across heavily carpeted flooring and then slapping softly against polished marble. You dared to gaze up and shuttered once again as Sanguinius’s gilt portrait stared down at you. At this angle his expression was completely different. The golden brows were knit just so into an expression of disappointed anger, the spread wings just a little too wide to be welcoming…

Swallowing hard, you ignored the twist in your gut and carried onward at a respectable hurry. Few other thralls were here now, and even those were staying relatively silent. Conversations were short and impersonal from what you could snatch. No one stopped you and you slowed only when you approached the nave, nearly slipping on freshly swept flooring. 

Looming in the shadows of the asp, the chaplain was a black velvet specter wondering among the ghosts of its ruins. Broken things that had once been cherished chapter relics laid in the back of antechamber, now nothing but pitted scraps of bone and metal. He was not the one to address you, however. Indeed another thrall, draped in robes as black of his own, appeared at your right flank. To your honest surprise they were immediately fresh eyed, but clearly a bit older than you. Shorter, too, by a good distance.

“Yes?” They asked.

“I would…like to speak to the chaplain. Lord Mephiston’s orders.” You rambled softly. 

“Oh, I apologize but the chaplain has finished seeing others for the day, but I can offer help?”

Having been within earshot of you, the chaplain abandoned the inspection of a relic and rose. The short wings haloing his helmed head glinted sharp in the overhead torchlight as he approached from the shadows and into the glow. His voice, however, was not unkind. “I will see as many as I need to see. Worry not, I can leave the rest to the restorationist.”

The black robbed thrall smiled slightly, unsure for a moment, then wondered away. 

“Speak, my child.” 

And so you did. Your sins were long and your emotions decidedly constipated. Frustration rang through your voice in inappropriate ways and it shamed you to speak at all, but you did. The whole time the chaplain said not a word, assessing you as Lord Mephiston might through unexpressive emerald lenses. You did not sob, to your gratitude. All of it spilled out as strained anger. Eventually, he held up a hand and the verbal deluge stopped instantly. Although it did come with the sudden need to immediately disobey that request. 

“Child of Baal.” He began quietly. “The burdens you carry are great. You’ve a right to feel such rage. So many echos of a wounded past bleeding into your future.” 

Oh, throne, he was speaking like your master. In riddles. For some reason you weren’t reacting well to this at all. “I am sorry, my lord, I shouldn’t have come here.”

Now he sounded worried. “Why? Clearly you needed someone to confess to, my child. I feel like that’s the most you’ve talked all month.”

“I…” You had nothing to counter that, but tried. “I don’t know! And I don’t…I don’t need your pity. I’m not a useless child anymore.”

“A child then? Is that how you see yourself?”

“No! Uh…y-yes?” 

The chaplain shook his head. “I understand. It might be hard to fathom but I understand. The sturdy walls of reality weaken and an already rotted Imperium sinks into its foundations. Each human soul I have encountered today is a testament to this. A tiny piece of a shattered mirror, trying to put itself back together.”

For a long moment you stood there, forcing your brain to think that over. The scholiast in you did not miss the horrendously true meanings of his words. They all rode upon the back of a horse who’s spine had been broken one too many times. It was only a matter of time before something gave. 

“So much uncertainty in these times, my child.” He breathed your thoughts as if they came from your own throat. “Even I, as young and promised as I am to a life of glory, can not say I will get to see any of it myself.”

“Let alone me.”

“Exactly.” He agreed, chin dipping blow the raised gorget of his breastplate. “We are all flickering candles in a storm. Any one of us could be snuffed out at any moment but in that time we have we are nothing but pure light.”

It was a humbling statement to be sure, and a true one at that. One that was also familiar to you, in some context. So many. So very many of the novels you’ve read held the same grim message and for years you thought of it all as useless. That your flame would petter out, forgotten, and that you would be fine with it so long as you were useful to someone. 

The whole time the two of you spoke the chaplain perched at the nave, regarding the same split helm you’d seen before as if looking to it for advise. You might have been able to recall of the wearer’s name from an archive somewhere, if you tried. But you did not. It felt like looking into the vacant eye sockets of a ghost. You could not help but be transfixed as well, staring at the brown speckled stain marring the left eye, where the talon had scythed through the eye beneath. 

“There is someone I want you to meet, child.” The chaplain broke into your thoughts.

You recoiled, realizing you really did not want to meet anyone today. Not after forcing yourself to be so vulnerable. To a battle brother no less. Yet before you could attempt a polite no, the thrall from before stepped out into view as if called. To their credit, they looked about as confused and off-put as you, but the chaplain insisted. 

“I think you two might have something shared to connect over. I must see to my brothers.” 

Neither of you spoke as he turned about and walked from the nave, leaving you both to bath in the awkward company. Your nervous, furrowed gaze stared into theirs. They were the first to smile, all anxious and uncertain but polite none the less. 

“Uh, yes, good morning. Come back here with me.”

Somewhat grateful to be directed, your shoulders sagged as you followed them past the nave, through the antechamber and into a discreet bulkhead door that creaked open as the thrall strained to jar it on its frame. Immediately the smell of fine art paints and moldering flowers hit you like a physical shove. The space was lit not by any artificial lighting like in the chapel, but by tens of guttering black tallow candles struggling to stay aflame in the vicious rattle of the cold air scrubbers. Twinkling like burning souls on their way to Terra to unite with the Golden Throne. 

At first what you had thought to be a morgue was, in reality, living quarters. Or…had been. The other thrall caught you staring in abject horror at a mass of dead roses and funeral tokens littered before one of the cell doors. The door itself was no longer there, but the torn iron frame was. The portal beyond was hellishly dark and chilled your spine to look into it at all. 

“Ah, yes…this was the sight of one of the worse Tyranid attacks on the ship.” They explained. 

Really, they didn’t need to. In the quivering light you could see where bolt shells had detonated against the walls, leaving burned, inhuman silhouettes forever scarred into the iron behind them. Too there were sharp rents in the bare metal, or massive pockmarked holes where strong acid had eaten through. Worse yet were the dark, coppery staines that spread all over the floors, walls and even up to the high ceiling. 

And yet your host stood among all of it with as little regard as the mess hall, or the throne damned toilet box. “Are you alright…?”

“No. No I’m really not.”

“Don’t worry about it. I mean…yes, worry, but all of it is in my past. I can’t really see it as anything else and I don’t recommend anyone else to either.” 

Now uneasy and more than a little mistrustful, you eyed the other thrall under their too large robes. “Just in the past, huh?”

Despite the size difference between the two of you, the other thrall bristled. “Listen, I…”

“Hold up.”

You had not heard the third person approach from behind, immediately diffusing your anger with a blind startle. The woman, thus revealed, held her hands up as if preparing to be stricken. Before you realized it, your fist clutched, floating above your head. With a whimper, you forced it down. 

“Ah, throne I’m sorry.” Said the black robed thrall, brushing past you. “I didn’t know you were back already. Uh. We’ve got a guest?”

“So I see.” The woman grunted. Immediately you knew she was not a thrall at all. No work robes, only heavy flannels and tough linen pants. Bare faced, no hood, just a bundle of blonde hair fastened into a tight fist at the back of her skull. “If you’re going to have a go at it, I suggest you two find somewhere else.”

Ashamed, the both of you separated. You had no idea why you felt the need to take an order from her, but she was right regardless. You’d been seconds away from hitting one of your fellow thralls out of presumption. Shameful. 

Before you could offer any thigh throated apologies the woman walked from the hall and back out into the grand chapel without another word. 

“I am sorry too.” The thrall clutched their hands together as if forcing them to stay still. “I guess I need to explain a lot. About what happened here and why my master might have wanted us to meet.”

Nodding vaguely, you followed them past the memorials and into a relatively undamaged but wholly unused part of the living quarters, where the only intact cell was located. Hitting a well worn panel a few times snapped the overhead lumes on, which buzzed louder than the old electric lamp in your original cell ever did. It felt sterile and old down here and indeed it was. The cell itself was obviously well occupied however. Piles and piles of work tables added a sense of familiarity to your heart that was absent up until now. But instead of scrolls there were bundles and bundles of bones, stone tablets and other artifacts that might have once been part of the chapel. 

“The restorationist lives here with you?” 

“Aye, you master, Lord Mephiston, picked her personally and she’s been holed up here in the cell since .” In truth the other thrall sounded almost in awe of her and they had a right to be. Your studied eyes only needed to skim some of the works in progress to understand the skill that was needing to be deployed here. 

“Is there anyone else?” 

“No. It’s just me and her down here.”

That’s strange. The Reclusium on the Arx, a place forbidden to your rank, was still staffed by specialty trained thralls by the tens usually. Even if the grand chapel was smaller, it was no minor detail and should have realistically been tended to by more than just them.

It dawned on you a little too quickly. There was no one else. All of those funeral markers and memorials? They were for the others.

“Oh, throne I’m so sorry…”

“F-For what?” They threw back their hood, reveling a gaunt face and nearly bald head. 

“For all of this?” You insisted, waving your hands beyond the cell door and out into the halls of roses and scars. 

“I didn’t live through it though. I mean, I did, but I was an infant.” They swallowed. “Don’t get me wrong, please! I still care, but it’s so hard for me to connect to people I never knew. I mourn the loss of the relics more than I do anything else. That sounds so cruel and…” They coughed, shuttering. “One moment. Would you like some tea?”

You would very much like to, yes, and you voiced this. It gave the moment a needed tension break as the chapel thrall wondered over to a battered steel stove and got a pot going. What was served barely fit the definition of tea, but it was warm and pungent and that’s all that mattered. 

Sipping on their’s, your companion continued. “Actually, no you’re right it is cruel to think that way.”

“I didn’t say it was cruel.” But you did think it. Sort of. “I’ve…struggled to understand my own parents so I might understand it. A little.”

Sighing, they added. “I feel worse that there’s not even any images but our masters still died along side them regardless. You know that old helm back in the nave? It was the former chaplain’s. I was apparently introduced to him when I was born and he gave me my name. I never got to know him, or his own name, until fairly recently.”

Drumming your fingers across the hot clay cup, you could see where they were coming from now. “Do you feel like you miss them at all?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t. I…really don’t.” They peered up at you, wide eyed. “Is that wrong?”

“I can’t say.” You forced yourself to keep eye contact with them. “I have…so many complex feelings over my own parents, but I knew them.” 

“Are they still alive then?”

You bit your lip. The tea was starting to taste bitter. “Just…just my father. But I didn’t…he wasn’t around.” Not in the way the mattered, anyways. “And mother? I found out she’d been dead a while. I…we have the same thoughts on that. I don’t miss them. Too much went on.”

“Then it’s alright I guess.” Concluded the other thrall. “As long as I’m not the only one who feels the same way. I’m surrounded by a lot of grieving people that I can’t relate to much at all. I feel awful about it but there’s nothing I can do. I was in an escape pod and my parents stayed to defend the asp. The former chaplain ordered them down here to hide, but…he was slain and they were sniffled out and slaughtered too. It’s terrifying don’t get me wrong, but I had no faces and belongings to attach any feelings too. Just the chaplain’s helm.”

Stuffing down a dry heave, you set your half finished cup aside. “I…I see.” 

Did you really? Horror warred with an unfamiliar sense of jealousy for the other thrall. They had nothing to mourn over, while you had a father who was never there and a mother who wasted away in the wards. Conversation died quickly after that, but despite your discomfort the other was smiling. 

“Thank you for listening.”

“Why thank me? The chaplain made us talk, I…” Now you were the one who sounded cruel. “Throne, I don’t know. I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not either. We gave it a try anyways.” They shrugged, taking away your cup for you. 

“We did.” You had to admit. “Should we keep trying though?”

“We should. I don’t…I don’t want to be the only one who feels like this. If you wouldn’t mind.”

You weren’t so sure about that, but agreed anyways. “I’ll do my best. Uh, and the restorationist?”

“Oh! Her. She’s fine, just busy a lot but I think she could talk. Eventually.”

“I’ll come back here later then.” You concluded, feeling only a little less awkward than before. 

It would be a while before you got used to actually talking to anyone except for you your masters. That was…not normal. So you needed this. Walking very rapidly past the hall of scars, you returned to the Chief Librarian.


	14. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least you face your feelings, and Lord Mephiston's. Physically and emotionally. All the while old ghosts refused to be laid to rest in the wake of the chief librarian's arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for smut and gore! 
> 
> So...this was certainly more of a filler chapter than anything solid plot wise? I know I'm supposed to show more than tell but I felt like Mephiston and Reader deserved some good dialogue after so long. I could have made this chapter longer, but I wanted it to be relationship focused. VERY relationship focused!

The thrall in funerary black laid down hours ago and swore by now they’d gone to sleep. All sense of reality fled, but they had little idea why they were still seeing the inside of their cell. A dream, perhaps, but the details seemed too perfect. Everything was in its place as if they laid there with their eyes wide open. Their side table still had the used clay cups sitting on it, unwashed. The restorationist was snoozing at her work desk less than ten feet from the cot bunk, insensate. 

But they could not move. No amount of self awareness that this might be a dream kicked them back into wakefulness like it sometimes did. But they knew what this was too. For the past month they’d seemingly woke up locked in place with no connections to the real world until…

He arrived.

They know him now for what he is. An opaque specter in black artificer armor, draped in a robe of his own blood and viscera. It was everywhere. Constantly leaking onto their nice clean floors. Not in drops but in rivers, pouring forth with each plodding step he took. The wounds that killed him hung open, spilling out organs that never quite fell out, hanging by sheets of muscle and connective tissue. Always smelling fresh despite his death being literal decades ago.

“Why do you keep coming back?” They asked of him in the same tone as one might scold a misbehaving pet.

He could not look at them because his body ended at the gorget. Whatever monstrous tyrannic creature he fought had long since wrenched the head from his body. Still for some reason he wondered into the room, nearly every night, since the Blood Caller departed Baal.

So it was a good question. One they almost never got an answer to. 

To say they were not afraid would have been a lie. He would never hurt them, but his appearance was enough to make them sick. He was little more than blood and flesh held together by his battle plate at this point. It didn’t cut a pretty image. 

Sometimes, by the Throne, he spoke. 

“Judgement.” He whispered through the vox grill in his chest. It was a mechanical, ghostly wash of noise that barely sounded like words.

“Judging me for what? Sanity? I don’t think I have too much of that anymore.”

They were being sarcastic. Joking was really the only way they could get the blind urge to run to leave their already immobile body. 

“Not you.” He replied. This was the most they’d ever gotten from a conversation so far. “Never you, my dearest child.”

The implication of it disturbed them. “Then who?” They demanded, trying to make their voice sound forceful despite they had no clear use of their mouth.

“Mephiston!” It hissed, the words stretching and distorting until reality went with it. Pulling the walls into a twisted whirl entirely focused on the gory epicenter that was the former chaplain. Screams boiled in his shadow and the thrall sensed more than guessed that they belonged to the people who had been family. 

A woman who could have been their mother surged behind his shadowed form, falling apart in cleanly cut pieces, dissected hands still reaching for them from behind a greave. A man that could have been their father howled, under lit by the flash of a laspistol that quickly ran dry. Then he was gone, dissolved in a puddle of flesh and bone as an unseen liquid splashed his entire body. The last they got to see of him was his naked eyeballs staring straight ahead, blind and wild. And still the slain chaplain stood before these ghosts that had been people, protecting them even in death. 

They woke, screaming.

The restorationist jolted from her own sleep, rattling the table, sending pens and brushes rolling across her desk.

“Throne! Again?” She didn’t sound happy.

“Again.” They confirmed nastily, hands scrambling over the side table to find the gas lamp in the far corner. They didn’t care that the unwashed cups went skittering to the floor, shattering. Light was the only thing they cared about. 

Annoyed, the restorationist scowled and switched on a clamp light fixed to her work desk, banishing the shadows just as the thrall had their fingers on the ignitor. 

“S-Sorry.” The thrall managed, forcing themselves to move away on a stiff spine. “He wanted to talk again, I guess.”

“Diurniel seems very talkative lately.” She groaned, rotating sorely in her chair to have a better look at her cellmate. 

“He gave me a bloody warning this time.” The thrall hissed, rubbing their eyes. 

The restorationist narrowed her own. “You know you’re not supposed to be listening to the things that aren’t really there. You know what warp storms do to regular people.”

“I know that! I was born on this ship! We aren’t even near a warp storm but I keep having these dreams!”

Unbothered, the cellmate continued. “For all we know the Rift decided to change the rules. Just being out in the void could be a danger now. We are hosting Librarians after all. The Chief Librarian himself at that.”

They opened their mouth to say something, but snapped it shut a moment later. The gesture wasn’t lost on the restorationist but she decided it was not for her to know. 

An awkward moment of silence passed before the woman loosened her limbs with a pop and stood from her work chair. “You alright? Maybe we should get up and see what’s going on.”

“I’m fine.” The thrall insisted like they always did, but soon stood themselves. Their dark uniform thankfully hid all of the sweat, but the thirst did not. They were swallowing massive gulps from a water jug under the cot. Almost as an afterthought they offered it to the restorationist with a shaky hand.

“I’m fine too. Here.” 

From within the wooden depths of their work surface the woman pulled out a tiny jar filled with a substance that looked almost like oil. Golden and sluggish. “Just have a spoonful.”

“No, not your honey! I can’t imagine how much you had to pay for that!” They hissed, charmed but fighting back all the while. 

“Shut up, you know the sort of connections I have. Just have a bit.”

“Fine.” They relented, scooting over to let the woman sit beside them. 

The tiny half spoon of honey was always the best thing they would ever taste. Disgustingly sweet and stiff with age, melting on their tongue as the glucose spike hit them almost immediately. It energized better than any recaff and supposedly it was way healthier too.

Grinning smugly, the restorationist asked. “Better?”

“Much.” They replied, catching a stream of drool before it fell. Throne, they would be tasting it in their saliva for the next hour or so. 

“Good.” She winked, nudged the thrall and got back up to stretch. “Throne, I should know better than to sleep in the chair. But I think Diurniel woke you up at the right hour. It’s morning.”

\----------------

Cold hands wondered down your body, large enough to spread across the entirety of your bare chest. Lord Mephiston was not a small man. Each long, bony finger could have punctured a hole through you with enough pressure. It said nothing of the deadliness of his teeth, fangs as large as your finger and sharper than anything wondered your bare skin. 

You weren’t afraid though. Not anymore. His attentions were sending fire and ice through your body, jolting nerves and muscles in just the right ways. You returned to him last night as promised and this morning you got your reward. So many sensations were flooding through your veins that you could only whimper and moan. Tiny, easily healing wounds covered your skin where Lord Mephiston had sampled your blood and found it good.

Too, he was naked in the dark chamber, all ghostly grey flesh and steel bones. Laying underneath him like this let you run your hands over the grooved scars covering the librarian’s gaunt torso. Some formed shapes, barely legible runes, others were just old wounds that felt like they should have been fatal. He enjoyed what you were doing, moaning deeply as your blunt fingers caressed a hard nipple. 

“I can…” You gasped, trying to form words. “I can do a lot more to pleasure you if you want, my lord.”

Finally he pulled away. A curtain of white hair framed his thin face, eyes faintly aglow in the darkness. You didn’t extrapolate, instead mindfully sending images towards him, depicting what you had in mind. He shuddered slightly and the hardness you could just see peering between his legs bobbing slightly. 

With nervous excitement you sat up, dipping low as his knees went wide. While your eyes had adjusted to the darkness, you still had to feel your way down, slowly. Until your mouth found the bloated head of his pale cock. He tasted strange, like salt and sweet. Mephiston remained motionless but a hand came up to cup the back of your head, guiding your mouth. With your inexperience you needed it and soon you were pushing his blooming head past your parted lips. Throne, he was rock hard and long, poking the back of your throat before you’d gone even a quarter of the way down. Maybe it was intimidating but the rush left you wet, hot and uncaring. 

Fat beads of pre-cum heralded your efforts, which you gladly licked up, focusing on the slit and just behind the head. It spawned so many bestial noises from the man above you, now crotched like a gargoyle as you lavished his cock with your tongue. Slow, nervous strokes soon turned into confident bobs and dips. His balls were leaping and twitching, one hand leaving your head to guide your own towards them. Like the rest of him they were perfectly hairless and a little chilly. His hand closed around yours and you got the message, kneading them with careful attention.

Immediately his groans turn into sharp panting, the only motion his body expresses lays solely in his pelvis. Throne, if the shadows weren’t so deep you could seen every bone and sinew in his great thighs strain and bulge. You never wanted this to be over. He smelled musky, intoxicating and tasted exotic. So many new experiences that you were given without a sign of fear. It brought a spark of pride to your eyes, spurring you on to go down on him completely. His shaft, so thick and firm, passed down your throat. Tears blinked from your eyes with the effort, unable to consume him fully but it did the trick.

Curling his toes into the rug, Mephiston gave out a single, shuttering cry and his cock danced in your throat. Resisting the urge to gag, you valiantly held still until he was finished. You tasted none of it but the lingering flavor stuck to the back of your throat as his fingers gently pulled you off his cock.

“Ahhh, thrall.” He whispered affectionately. The kiss, when it came, was full and icy. Throne, even his tongue was cold. It was so unexpected and welcomed but with no experience in the matter all you could do was moan in surprise and arousal. 

Lord Mephiston pulled away, licking his teeth. “I will mate you. Now. If you so wish.”

Just the idea of it alone brought on a fresh surge of heat and a mewling whine from your lips. Yet your answer didn’t come immediately. He waited for you, patient. 

“N-Not yet.” You stuttered. “I’m not…I don’t think I’m ready.”

At first you feared his disappointment, but found his wide hands caressing your face with the same delicate care he might an aged tome. “Then I am not ready either.”

“You don’t mind waiting?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

It was a fair question and one you didn’t have an answer to. Before you could voice your confusion he had you again. Gently pulling your naked form onto his equally naked lap. “Let me bring you to completion.”

His face briefly nuzzled against your chest, then very slowly started to venture down, nipping and kissing flesh as he went. You knew exactly where he was going. Even so you weren’t quite prepared when his muscle thick arms hoisted you up, planting his head between your thighs. 

Unbelievably his whole mouth was warm now. Hot even. It’s as if his own orgasm lit an inner fire, warming his core from the inside out. It stoked within him like flames and bled out into your loins as his tongue worked you over. The same slow, lavish licks you’d given him just moments ago. It was all you could do to stay still let alone quiet. It wasn’t long before you were breathing his name into the air. In ways you’d never say anyone else’s. Your orgasm came far, far too quickly for your liking but it couldn’t be helped. Holding onto his shoulders, hunched over, you rode it out until he deemed you finished. 

His now warmed hands snaked up your back, carrying your limp form to the carpeted floor. Wrenching your eyes open you were suddenly scared again. Your mind remembered the sight of him, mouth open with a forest full of teeth and fire. Instead you found him, placid. And a little moist below the chin. No smug, confident smile, just an expressionless, hollow face housing hungry, primordial eyes. 

When you reached up and touched his cheek those red, red eyes closed and the sound he made was almost a purr. The fear faded. 

“We shall work on your stamina next time.” He spoke, just the softest bit of humor in his tone. It made you blush.

“Aye, my lord.” Then your face tightened. “My lord, if I may? I…I need to ask something.”

His face withdrew from your periphery, arms carefully dragging you to lay beside him, pinned to his chest in a hold that you would have claimed was possessive had this been anyone else but him. “Speak.”

“What’s…what’s really going on? Everyone seems so confused and in the dark. I spoke to a few of the new breed…the Primaris. They have no idea where we’re headed and everyone was acting so coldly towards them.”

A long pause ensued, and for a moment you thought you’d gotten too confident. Verbally overstepped your boundaries. Instead, you felt his breath at the back of your neck, voice quiet but strangely hollow.

“If they knew what I was preparing to do…if you knew.” The pressure of his arms against your bare chest tightened. It didn’t hurt, but it could, very quickly. You laid there, perfectly still, knowing better than to struggle.

“M-Master…” 

Something in the tone of your voice broke the spell and his grip went limp. Not letting go exactly, but there was no strength in it. None at all. You could have exhaled and fled his hold but you did not. You trusted him. 

“I’m not scared.” You replied. “Don’t…don’t keep me in the dark like this. I can barely make sense of this myself.”

“I…” He rumbled, so low and slow it sounded like someone else entirely. “I pursue a daemon. One of terrible power and influence. I believe he and he alone has the key to closing the Rift. Rhacelus has expressed concern over how liberally I’ve let myself be led by this creature…but thrall, if I am not willing to dive into the darkness with him, how will I catch him?”

The question wasn’t for you. You knew that. You couldn’t reply even if it was. Daemons? He brought you along while he hunts a daemon? 

“Why me?” You shakily asked the air, but Mephiston provided an answer anyways.

“I need a lifeline.” He growled into your shoulder, breath fiery. “I could be so close to losing myself otherwise. You’ve seen the way the shadows themselves dance around me. Do you see that with any other librarian on this ship? With Rhacelus? With Antros?”

The image of Antros’s inner-lit skull and crown of feathers drifted into your mind, but just as quickly you banished it with your words. “None, my lord.”

“Exactly, my thrall. Exactly. I am a haunted soul hunting a haunted being.” He exhaled. His breath was icy again, chilling the back of your neck and making you shiver. “Even the ghosts aboard this ship awaken. The longer I am here the more vicious they’ll become. But they have a purpose.”

“I don’t understand.” You really didn’t. None of it. Throne, you should have kept your mouth shut.

“Pray that it stays that way.” While not a threat, more of a prayer itself, the implications of what might happen to you should you begin to comprehend was…fairly obvious. 

“Does Lord Rhacelus know about this?” 

“He knows enough. He will not agree with what I have planned or what I will do. But he can’t do what I can. No one can.” 

And you believed him. Why wouldn’t you?

“Thrall?” 

“Master?”

“Do you care about me? Even if you saw me lose what’s left of my sanity, would you still be able to say you care? Or would you fear I might slay you? If I lost control?”

Your guts clenched. Painfully. Starting from your pelvis all the way up to your stomach and then your chest. Yet there was not a single iota of doubt in your voice. “H-Honestly? I’m pretty sure I love you. I don’t know what I would do if I left.” You swallowed what tasted like bile. “I will be scared. I’m always at least a little scared. But I’m not going to leave. Throne, I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

“You love me?” For the first time there was physical hesitation in his voice. Not quite doubt, but close enough to make you want to cry.

“I do! I p-promise. I’ve never experienced it before but I know that’s what I feel.” Your hands, so very tiny against his scarred, ashen arms, gripped him tight. “It’s not appropriate, I know, but I can’t help it.”

Mephiston let out a long, exhausted breath. “Thank you.”

“Master?”

You felt him shake his head above you, arms curling about you again. “Please. No more words. Let me hold you.”

And hold you he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, for those who have read Blood of Sanguinius, Revenant Crusade and City of Light...this chapter is inching towards the very VERY begining of Revenant Crusade and contains a lot of hints towards that book. I would suggest reading it to get a lot of the messy implications I try to make here. Particularly with the ghost terrorizing the other poor thrall. 
> 
> Additionally, I will be furbishing names for any unnamed characters late to help readers understand what's going on. I didn't originally plan on having non-canon characters interacting with Reader, but I've found it needed because there's just not enough canon characters to speak of! At least not in the books I wanna focus on. 
> 
> As always, if you have suggestions or thoughts let me know, I'm super open to feedback. I'm curious on who you all imagine Reader to be too! ;)


	15. Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mephiston's work is haulted, his witch sight blinded. He has a lead, but requires help. But at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The original ship Mephiston took to Morsus was called the Blood Oath, but this directly conflicts with the Blood Caller as the ship Mephiston lead through the warp in Darkness in the Blood. To keep with canon details I will be sticking with the Blood Caller as the ship in question since Darkness in the Blood and Revenant Crusade are supposedly very close in terms of occurrence.
> 
> I would also suggest reading Revenant Crusade at this point because this and the next few chapters lead directly into it! The chapter itself is a bit of a doozy of a read too in terms of length.

Mephiston’s vision immediately adjusted to the comforting dark of the ritual chambers, catching only those vague phantoms as they trailed in his wake. More and more of them flew under his haunted banner, but very few if any, were his allies. Indeed the dead as currently minimal as they were, whipped into a rage, both by his proximity and his return to the nest from which they spawned. Although no port hole allowed him a visual of that awful scar, the Cicatrix Maledictum. He could still see it when he closed his eyes. Just behind this thin eyelids. Always that terrible yet nurturing surge of warp energy. That he had only grown stronger and more out of control since it’s opening said something of his nature, indeed, but the reasons were invalid. Not when he was so very close. 

In truth, the ritual chambers were but a section of the Blood Caller’s hold he acquired for his own purposes. What he had in mind required a significant amount of space and darkness that his own personal chambers just could not contain at its current size. Not while on the ship in any case. 

In through the brass wrought door he went, and the moment he crossed a supposed threshold the phantoms became firecracker bright. There were but three that dared show themselves at any given time, but several more could be felt rather than seen. They would gain a visual form soon enough, but Mephiston only paid heed to the one in front of him. 

Diurniel he was called. He’d never met the chaplain whilst he still lived, but it was clear what slew him. Headless and nearly eviscerated, the onyx specter possessed a sickly green glow bleeding freely from any and all open orifices in his armor and in what was left of his body. What always fascinated Mephiston about these meetings with the dead chaplain were the two other ghosts in his wake. Very clearly human, or had been. They were worse off than he was and most times they didn’t appear to be much more than shambling piles of flesh in a vaguely sapient shape. 

“You. Are. Making. A. Mistake.” Hissed the headless chaplain, the noise coming not from a mouth, but from a bleeding vox grill in his gorget. 

“As you’ve told me many times before.” Lord Mephiston replied testily. He had not expected Diurniel to be so actively hostile. There was not a single, physical thing the apparition could do, but that hardly kept a wave of pure hatred from slamming the chief librarian in the flank like a hard spray from a scatter round. 

“And yet…you. Do. Not. Listen. You fly after a deamon. Blindly tangling yourself in your own web.” He waved a staff of shadow that had been his crozius. The tangible one now belonged to his successor. Mephiston knew where it was pointing, but refused to humor the ghost any further than he already had. 

He continued on his path towards the brass throne force-welded to the far wall. It was warded and the runes glowed brighter the closer he got. Once the ghost and his entourage entered, the space would scatter them. Turn them incorporeal. More so than they already were. He would get a measure of peace from a lack of words, if not a small lack of their hatred. 

Firmly planting himself into the throne, he hissed as the ritual daggers came to his hands and punctured his thighs, all the way through the meat and into the metal beyond. The pact he had made between flesh and metal pinned him to the spot as a butterfly to a cork board, but it also designated this vast circle of space as his. Whatever Diurniel tried to say scattered as his headless body screamed and came apart like smoke. 

In the charnel reaches above, the web Diurniel warned him of was forming. Thin strips of leather peeled from the raw bones of heretics and traitors both, hung in interconnecting threads. Dark blots of blood along the walls and ceiling recreated a sort of map that only the chief librarian could clearly read. And even then the exact portents were hazy. For the last several days he’d been staring at them, looking through glimmering strands of wet flesh to try and find the connections. There just wasn’t enough information. Not enough bodies to create the full picture he saw continually blooming in his head like a rotten flower. 

He needed a record of some sort. A waypoint from whence he could set course and follow the nest of skin to its origins. To the deamon. To their master. 

With a wave of his hands, Vidiens fluttered through the gore, baring a carefully bound and rolled star map. It was the oldest available on Baal, let alone this ship. Another gesture saw it unraveling before his eyes, displaying the stars as they might have looked from Terra during some unfathomable time. 

As always, he found himself irritated at the lack of information. Finger holes made whole constellations disappear, oily smudges and age spots obscured most of the index key…everything. Nothing was of use beyond what’s he’d already scrapped together. Much if not all of the available map was recreated in some way, shape or form in the nest of skin as it threw red shadows across the vast planes of iron and brass. 

Always the winding, bloody serpent he knew represented the Rift. It was in pieces now, whole vertebra missing due to the map’s damage. Not even the web and his own auguries could plug in the gaps. Something always seemed to occlude his vision when he tried. Blinding him. 

Sucking in the charnel smell of the place, he had Vidiens bare the map away. Then he stood, pulling the long daggers from his legs as if they were mere splinters. He did not enjoy Diurniel’s reappearance, but his stately pace and determined expression allowed him to coldly dismiss the ghost’s hissing ramble. For now. 

He needed to summon the restorationist. 

———— 

Your duties for the day were finally done. Lord Mephiston had awoken, seemingly not aware he’d even been asleep and set you about parsing through his shelves for certain volumes. He was…distant, as if still locked in a dream or distracted by some new task discovered in his sleep. True sleep, you had to note. He’d dozed off, naked, with his limbs locked around your own equally naked body. 

Thankfully your mind didn’t bother to linger on his odd mood. You were well enough used to it you supposed, not to mention you gave him one hell of a confession. Very likely the chief librarian had little idea what to do with your affections much less your love beyond the need to mate. 

Maybe you should have said yes. You were biting your lip the whole time thinking of it, excited for further encounters. Maybe your weren’t ready then, but you were growing confident that you would be next time. 

But those were thoughts for another day. He wanted these items left with Vidiens and with nothing else assigned for you that day you planned to see the chapel thrall again. The first meeting was awkward to say the least, but if you had to be honest with yourself they were the first person who seemed to understand you a little. Besides your masters of course. 

Once again the exit to the chambers simply…appeared. You would never be used to that but admitted it saved you a lot of time and confusion. The wizened servitor fluttered in a corner close to the ceiling, swooping down with a buzz of anti-grav motors to collect your burden. Even it seemed strangely silent today. But that wasn’t any of your business, wasn’t it? 

By now you knew your way to the grand chapel and its occupants were minimal at this hour. Most thralls would have been off to enjoy a brief lunch before getting back to work and indeed that’s where you found the black robed thrall and the restorationist. Neither you or them were especially fond of the often crowded mess hall so the moment you got your rations for the day, you were invited back to their chambers. 

All three of you pointedly ignored the still mouldering mass of flowers and candles guttering in all corners of the hall, ducking into their chambers. The restorationist’s work desk was as cramped as before, her bunk remaining largely unused. It felt decidedly familiar as your own work desk continued to be a functional mess even outside of Baal. Now that you had a proper look at it, perhaps you’d severely underestimated that… 

The work in progresses on display were of heart-stopping intricacy and produced with materials you knew from experience were mind-numbingly expensive and hard to find. Even the instruments that were carefully but still casually put to the side were both extremely modern and very ancient. Spotting you staring in what you could only guess was vague horror, the restorationist waved. 

“I’ve been at this a while now.” She told you as if that explained everything. It did not. 

By then the chapel thrall was growing interested as well. They seemed to have little idea of the wealth of what was being worked on here, but then you couldn’t blame them. You two would be having that conversation later, you guessed. The restorationist, for her part, looked almost smug. 

“You know I’m from Terra, right?” She asked, almost winking but not quite. 

“I-I suspected!” You utter, fascinated. “You have to be insanely talented too. I know some of the artwork you’re restoring by hand matches the hand of the artists, which I think were Astartes!” 

“…be honest with me, thrall. How old do you think I am?" 

That question threw you a bit, you had to admit. “…maybe…early thirties?” 

She shook her head. “I’m pushing three hundred years.” 

Now it was the chapel thrall’s turn to look smug. They’d known that for a little while now and gently shook you out of it as you gaped. “Rejuvinate treatments? Aren’t those only for nobles and high ranking officials?” 

The restorationist took a seat at her desk, leaning back and for all the world looked as if she might preen a little. “Which do you think I am? Aye, I’m joking. My family, in their thousands, are highly sponsored. We tend to dominate the market a little so our clients don’t really think too hard about paying out the nose to keep us alive.” 

“And with age comes the skill?” You deduced, still a little shocked. “Uh, I don’t think I got your name?” 

“Oh!” She blinked. “Right, I’m sorry. It’s Vigilance. Just…Vigilance.” 

Oh, you had a feeling there was more to it than that, but her tone brokered no extra questions. The chapel thrall behind you beamed slightly and spoke up as well. “And I’m Patience. Ironic, isn’t it?” 

“Those names are…very interesting!” 

“Aren’t they?” Vigilance giggled softly. “But, uh, right. I’m old, from Terra, and I’ve been at this sort of work so long its almost tedium. Don’t get me wrong I’m extremely proud of what I do, but at this point I don’t really take into account the expense of the items since quality is expected of me anyways. All proper procedures aside, I work for the work, not for the money or attention.” 

That made sense although the amount of skill she must be wielding with little effort put your own into question. A comparison you forced down with a hard swallow. “And you?” 

Patience looked up. “Oh! No, I’m none of that. As I said before I’m the only survivor and so more or less stayed down here to attend the new chaplain. My name was actually given to me by the chaplain that…came before.” 

You noticed their eyes darting to something in the corner. You guessed it was some ship bug. Common enough down here, attracted as they were to the wilting flowers outside. “I think I remember you mentioning that before.” 

“Aye. He’s…really the only person I sort of miss I think. Honestly? I’m glad you’ve not really said anything about me not missing my parents at all.” 

“Well…t-to tell you the truth, I knew mine but neither of them were really…there. In…all senses of that phrase. I have a hard time missing them.” At odd times you missed your mother, but those were emotions you decided you never needed to deal with again. 

Patience nodded slowly. “Aye, I understand. The emotional divorce I think. I don’t understand why so many people have to shame me for it though. It’s not like I ever managed to meet them.” Again, their eyes went to the same corner. “D-Don’t get me wrong! I still respect them for what they were and I feel bad for them, but…well, it’s very complex and I don’t feel like explaining it all to people who are clearly only there because of my parents. Not for me. The living don’t get honored like that.” 

That hit you harder than you can really admit and your eyes redirected almost immediately. “I understand too.” 

It was then that the cell door clanged slightly. Someone was rapping on the door. Annoyed and drawn from the conversation Vigilance peeled herself out of her chair and went to answer it. Vidiens could be seen fluttering heavily in the upper reaches of the halls, shrill voice chattering. At first you thought it was for you, and you could not help your own flash of annoyance but Vigilance looked even more so. 

“Sorry. I’m being summoned.” 

Lord Mephiston needed to see her? Not you? If you felt a pang of jealousy it went away before you could make notice of it. The tiny servitor outside seemed impatient for waiting and Vigilance contemplated making a show of it…but then sighed and grabbed a work bag from under the desk and left without another word. Both you and Patience watched the cell door creak shut, giving one another puzzled looks. 

“…are you sanguine?” You asked after a long, awkward pause. “You’ve been uh…staring at the corner for a while now.” 

A look of pure terror flashed through their eyes for but a moment, then it was gone, replaced with a strained smile. “N-aye…yes I’m fine. I’m sanguine. I’ve just not slept for a while.” 

“Should I leave so you can?” 

“No! Throne, please don’t. I really, really do not want to sleep right now.” 

Swallowing your own sense of growing unease, but unwilling to pry further into your friend's fears, instead you offered. “Want to clean up the flowers outside? Might clear your head.” 

“Great Angel, yes! Y-Yes please, I would love that. Thank you.” 

With some effort they finally tore their gaze away from the far corner and took your proffered hand gratefully. You couldn’t help but notice their grip was just a hair weaker than normal. Too, they were a little small and thin in the face. Perhaps that’s how all void born thralls were like? The gravity on the ship differed only minutely from Baal’s but you decided it was a detail that didn’t matter. 

Out in the main hall, like the first time you were here, was a guttering tunnel of candles and fowl smelling foliage. Browning pedals were scattered all over the decking, collecting along the edge of the walls and threatening to catch fire in the shadows of the candles. Huffing and puffing, Patience let go of your hand and hopped from candle to candle, snuffing them out with a little bell on a stick they’d produced from their tool pocket. 

Tiny pools of shadow grew in their wake until the auto-lumes detected a certain amount of darkness and buzzed to life. Immediately the atmosphere changed. No longer did it feel like you were walking into an unsealed mausoleum. It just looked…dirty. It smelled about as bad as it looked. 

More than a little relieved, Patience stood up right and sighed. “Finally. Maybe now we can leave all of this mess behind us.” 

“Indeed.” You agreed, plucking the candles from their bases. Most had melted into the decking and would need to be scraped off but for now that was the job of a servitor. “I really don’t understand why anyone else would want to keep your living space like this.” 

“It was all for my parents.” Patience waved off the concern, gathering one of the large wreaths in their arms. It had dried out so badly it created a storm of dried leaves and sticks at their feet. They waddled down the hall, presumably to leave it somewhere to be disposed of later. When they returned they were covered in crinkled roses and thorns that you helped them pick from their robes. “Not that they didn’t deserve it, but I’m here too you know? I really hope no one’s mad I took down all the offerings.” 

You made a face. “I don’t see how they would be. Everything’s gross and decayed now.” 

“…what are we going to do about, uh…the other room?” 

The two of you stared into the cell room that had originally set your nerves on fire with fear. With the auto-lumes on it looked less like a gaping maw and more like an opened, but unfinished crypt. No bodies of course, just…it was an ugly, ugly color, and something in there felt a little tangible still. 

Both you and Patience made a face, together. “It can wait.” 

“Agreed.” 

Sighing, you were relieved when the servitor Patience called down here finally arrived and started taking away the debris. Maybe now your poor friend could finally sleep… 

————

“You needed to see me, my lord?” Vigilance asked, into the apparent non-space of Mephiston’s personal chambers. Immediately she noticed the amount of osseous relics and paraphernalia scattered about. It possibly rivaled even the relics of the grand chapel she was painstakingly restoring just yesterday. Entire bookshelves weren’t just hosting these items, but actually made from them. Flattened ribs formed shelves and whole spines were the supports. 

Videins hissed something at her, but she didn’t bother to pay much attention to the servitor and instead waited for its master to appear. Which he did. Now, Vigilence had met him before when she was selected among the tens of restorationists who had been given to the chapter by Guilliman himself. But now he seemed almost a whole new person. Gone was any personable impression she’d originally formed, dressed in a fine silk robe that looked more than a little bloody where his thighs were, and little else. 

Immediately put off, the woman none the less approached. 

Lord Mephiston was bent over a vast work table sized specifically for his needs, parsing through an ancient map he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of. Without waiting for him to finish, Vigilance produced a fine bone stylus from one jacket pocket and freed an expensive looking dataslate from its home in her workbag. Her eyes had only been on the damaged map for but a moment but the design crawling across its surface was apparently already known to her. 

“A few centuries after Old Night, aye?” She asked, as a way of hopefully distracting the chief librarian. He still hadn’t spoken since she arrived. 

At last he straightened and it was like watching a great predator lift its snout to the smell of pray. His eyes seemed glazed over in a sheen of light that rapidly faded as he focused on her. “You know of it?” 

Encouraged but no less disturbed, she hid her face behind the slate and began tapping away at the screen. “Aye, lord. A common enough design from that time when man started traveling the stars again. They didn’t know much of what was beyond certain segmentums anymore so they often used, well, serpent designs to fill in the lost spaces. A warning, kind of like sailors of ancient Terra when they were still charting the globe. Supposedly.” 

If he was impressed at all by this information, he didn’t show it. Instead the chief librarian seemed to fall back into a state of fevered thought again, eyes glazing over once more. But just as quickly it was gone and the shadows clinging to his cheeks fled. 

“Indeed. There are secrets this map uncovered, but the material is incomplete. Damaged. I need it restored at all cost.” 

Ducking under his elbow, Vigilance sucked in a breath, tightly bound her hair and shoved on a pair of silk gloves. She refused to even breath on the relic much less touch it. “Oh, yes I see. It will take time I’m afraid, but if you have the materials…or at least something similar I have the archival mediums nee-“

“No.” 

“…my lord?” 

He slowly shook his head. “I need only the information, Vigilance. My records are painfully incomplete. That you’re familiar at all with this design brings me hope that I can complete this record and finally move on with this cursed mission.” 

She had never been afraid of an Astartes since her first time seeing one almost two centuries ago. He had been an Imperial Fist of Terra, assigning her to a minor project his serfs didn’t have the skills to fix but was too time consuming to address himself. She wasn’t even afraid when the Lord Regent himself came knocking on her door and took her off planet for the first time. But she was afraid now. Mephiston, without a doubt to her, was haunted. Yet she was bound to his service and so, without blinking, she nodded. 

He settled, if only a moment. “…make use of my scholiast as well. They should be able to help you.” 

“A-Aye, I’ve met them. I’ll be sure to let them know what I’m working o-“ 

“No! No…let the know that you chart references, not of the nature of your work.” 

Vigilance, despite herself, had backed away, shaking. “A-Anything else, my lord?” 

“No. Please, be swift. Your new work surfaces will be set up here in my chambers for your use. Abandon the projects you have currently, this is now your priority. Tell no one of this. No one. Dismissed.” 

Still having some shred of bravery left, the woman almost…almost protested but an icy feeling in her gut immediately squished that. With a hasty bow she let Videins show her the door…wherever it happened to be. 

The servitor was gone, but in his place was someone else she had never met and did not expect. Already well and truly annoyed and frightened in equal measure at least the woman put up a decent fight when the other librarian snagged her, gently pressing her to his armor in an effort to calm the woman. 

“Relax, girl.” Lord Rhacelus grunted. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just…need you to talk…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also happy to say that the two previously unnamed characters have names now! And more general involvement with the plot and Reader themself. And...hopefully just more plot in general I am not good at this LOL
> 
> As usual, if you have feedback or critique feel free to leave a comment!


	16. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The serpent twists and relationships you thought so well defined become blurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a pleasure and yet a hell of a doozy to write, and will be a doozy to read as well via word count. 
> 
> Small warning! Might be slightly triggering for awkward and very complex relationship issues and very morally challenging situations. I would also suggest you read a bit into City of Light as this chapter contains hints and possible spoilers! ;)

“Mort…?” 

It was not the utterance of the name that woke Mephiston from his semi-sleep, but the voice itself. 

“Mort…Mort, where are you?” 

His eyes slid open, blind and stinging in a thick murk of blood and amniotic fluids. His body still slept, cradled safely within in the confines of his coffin but his mind had awoken. It took only a single voice to do so. 

His arm reached out, trying to search for the origins of the speaker, even as she continued to call out a name that was not his. There was a dull thump just half a foot from his body. His hand could go no further. He staved off the sudden, heart-quickening sense of claustrophobia that overtook his slumbering body. Rolling uncomfortably in the molded rubber bed keeping his limbs in place. 

“Mort?” 

He saw her then. Belloria had been a lovely woman in both personality and visage. Fiery, passionate and quick to speak her mind. She had served him as loyalty as her mother had before her, and her grandmother before then. All the way back to his dearly missed Imola, devoured in her amniotic tank so many decades prior. So many faces and passions sweeping across his mind, across his eyes and all it took to summon them was seeing her once more. 

But that was not her. Not really. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Belloria was dead, wasted away due to an untreatable psychosis, leaving behind unrequited feelings and the scholiast he cared for now. Another emotion bubbled in his gut, but he could not identify it as he was now. Both hands thumped loudly against the inside of the lid, trying to reach her. Hold her. Touch her. To tell her everything. 

“It’s only I, Belloria. Mort isn’t here.” Mephiston tried. 

“Mort!” She called out, her face now fully focused onto him even if he knew she could not see. 

“I am not Mort!” He cried out, louder, hands forming into fists to fight against the curved, ornate metal blocking his path. She seemed so horribly far away. Like she always was. Always had been. 

Another noise clanged against his ears, washed out and fluid. He was furiously kicking and roaring, blood and amniotics both hissing to the floor as the delicate seals of his coffin broke. “I am not Mort!!” 

With that final lion’s roar the lid came bursting off its latch, crashing to the floor some meters away. Light shone from his scarred flesh and liquid thundered from his mouth as his lungs forced it out and up. Rubber tubes and conduits painfully yanked away from his flesh, leaking his own blood as Mephiston fought to stand and move forward. His coffin had been in the process of an emergency purge, detecting his struggles, but had been too late to eject itself correctly. Small shocks of electricity raced through his flesh of his own making, cleaning him of every last drop of fluid as he stepped from the ruin, naked. Haloed in a wash of red steam and lightning. 

Alarms continued to twitter painfully in his peripheral, but a violent wave of the hand silenced them. Terminals along the coffin’s intricate mechanisms caved, frying both the speakers and the controls. He was no more than a hunched, predatory gargoyle, pale and luminous in the blinking emergency lighting. Eyes fevered, Angel’s teeth fully extended and both hearts pounding. Gasping for air. 

Mephiston could not see her even with his eyes cleared. All of the ghosts, including hers, had fled the moment he burst forth in a bloody awakening and his hearts despaired for it. 

“Belloria? He asked, slowly, very slowly coming out of that warp-drunk stupor. Even more slowly he put down the arm he still had extended, blindly curling and uncurling on its own in its quest to find the woman. 

It was only then that he came fully awake and realized where he was, and what he had done. That he had slipped free of his moorings at all disturbed him. All around his feet were puddles of his own filtered blood that failed to return to him quickly enough. He knew he would be anemic for a few hours until his cells could recover. The failings of his mind were not lost on him and still crouched low to the ground, his icy hand smeared the blood from his waxen features. The skin of his cheeks felt so very thin. Like paper fit to tear if he scrubbed too hard. He knew this wasn’t true. That his body’s integrity was still as intact as it ever was. No, the weakness was in his mind. 

At last he stood, long-legged and gaunt, and closed his eyes again. The shades did not return nor did he want them to as the bone cold part of his soul slowly coiled about him, taking over. Quietly, he shut down the rest of the damaged systems surrounding him and summoned Vidiens from its roost in the rafters. 

“Bring me the scholiast. I am…not sanguine.” 

Vidiens, designed only to serve, did not speak or comment on his state of being and buzzed away on whirling wings. 

Running a hand through his thick mane of bone white hair, Mephiston sent a thought out and activated his bathing chambers just outside. He would benefit from a quick bath and a long, long conversation… 

\------

A knocking at the cell door woke you and caused Patience to grouse and roll in the bunk below yours. After the two of you had cleaned the hall and vented all of the associated emotions, you waited with Patience in the cell, drinking tea and finishing lunch. Vigilance never came back. This would have worried the chapel thrall if you hadn’t known who she was with. Not to mention her location technically wasn’t any of your business. At least that’s what you told yourself as you stayed up and reassured Patience that you would go and check on her next time your master called on you. 

And so you agreed to stay at their place, too. It was rather awkward at first, sleeping in Vigilance's bed, but Patience honestly appreciated the company. They did not seem so afraid anymore. No staring at dark corners or gazing at shadows as if they were growing claws. Things that reminded you a little too much of your mother and so, in some way, you did for them what you could not do for your mother. This time it was working, hopefully. 

But now you were awake and the knocking wasn’t stopping. You clambered down the iron ladder and planted your bare feet against cold decking. Patience was finally awake by the time you wondered over and propped open the door. Vidiens stared out at you through Mephiston’s perfect death mask and your heart quickened. 

“Lord Mephiston summons you, scholiast!” It crowed, but you immediately left the door ajar in its face and waddled back over to Patience. 

By now they were sitting up and trying to find some state of being associated with awake. “Uh, hm?” 

“My lord needs me, I’ll be back if I can.” You whispered. “I’ll ask if Vigilance is around.” 

“P-Please do.” Replied the other with a yawn. 

You left their side, got dressed in what you considered appropriate and went off after Vidiens. The servitor was obviously annoyed about you daring to make it wait, but you weren’t in the mood for it, nor were you cowed by its whining tones. 

You really could have gone there yourself, your feet knew the way by this point and to say you were excited to see him again was an understatement. The mysteries of Vigilance's absence waned slightly even as you passed by a score of other thralls until you reached the personal halls allotted to your masters. Grand spaces all, many only barely lit. Perhaps that was why you failed to side step Antros as he emerged into the halls, looking as excited as you. 

“Scholiast!” He called out, face bright and eyes nearly blazing. 

He wasn’t alone either. A squad of intercessors was at his back, forming a crescent moon with the codicer at its center. You recognized none of them with their helms on, all of them attempting to get Antros’s attention even with his distraction. 

“Lord Servatus, relax!” Antros was crowing and laughing, drunk on excitement. “I will deliver the salver to Mephiston in due order and then I promise to brief you.” 

Brother-Lieutenant Servatus you now knew from his rank markings and name. Swiftly you stepped back and away, making room for the Primaris as he broke formation and waved the rest of his squad away. None of them directly acknowledged you and for that you were grateful. 

“You will tell me now, codicer.” Servatus growled, a full head and shoulder over Antros who dared to still have a smile on his face. 

That smile faded, if only slightly. “I’ve found it, Lord Servatus.” 

“Found what, codicer?” 

“The key to his salvation. Our salvation, brother-lieutentant. I-I don’t think it existed, but I’ve found it!” 

Servatus was still for a long moment, as were you, both yours and his eyes tracking to the covered object Antros clutched to his battle plate so tightly. All attempts to get a clear look at the thing was met with guarding, rather the codicer knew it or not. 

You could not read the Primaris’s expression for it was entirely obscured by his helm, but his posture radiated mistrust and no small amount of exasperation. “Very well. I have orders from Lord Mephiston to guard his ritual chambers. If I am to ask no questions, so be it.” 

With a sharp gesture, as one the rest of his squad lowered weapons and departed. Not a single one of them had been in any sort of attack position but the lowered boltguns made you breath a sigh of relief. 

Unfortunately, Antros was instantly at your side within the next second, as if Servatus had never been there to begin with. To say this was…inappropriate was a grave understatement but the codicer’s feverant excitement was almost…almost contagious. 

“W-What did you end up finding that even Lord Servatus can’t see?” 

He winked, grinning so hard his Angel’s teeth were visible. “You shall see, scholiast. Accompany me to his chambers.” 

You were not going to mention that your lord had already summoned you, instead looking up briefly as Vidiens swept past and entered the supposed none-space of Lord Mephiston’s chambers. The tiny servitor crowed its announcement of the arrival of its master’s guests and for a small moment you gazed something shiny and brass gleaming as the black cover slipped free. Just slightly. Antros did not notice. 

For some reason your spine shivered, then the feeling was gone as Antros moved forward, beconing you behind him. Yet your mind wasn’t on the strange brass object, Antros or your master, but on Vigilance. Your eyes began to sweep the shadowy spaces and work tables sized for giants, hoping to see your friend’s cellmate perched there…anywhere. There was no sign of her and Antros was moving fast. You had to jog to catch up. 

The exact moment the codicer found Mephiston dressed in full plate and perusing through one of many tomes, Antros’s voice rose. “My lord, I have it! The Ephemeris! Just as my dreams revealed, all of my scrying…you can continue your web and your blindness can be lifted! And the ghosts...” 

By then the codicer was nearly breathless as Mephiston stood calmly regarding him, gaze hardening as the cloth was pulled free and you locked eyes upon the object. It was a salver but easily large enough to have carried a child upon its surface. Much of it was largely blank, carved from what seemed to be a single, massive piece of billeted brass. All save for a chilling etching bifurcating the entire piece from perceived top to bottom. It was a coiling, roiling serpent with its mouth hanging open so wide it might consume a planet. It’s tail was lost, undetailed, fading over the edge of the plate as if its creator simply chose not to continue. 

Before Mephiston finally noticed your presence, you were somehow privy to a great many worlds, not shown on the design itself but somehow perceived if you looked too hard… 

“Scholiast.” 

He only had to say your title, but you got the meaning immediately. Even Antros had stopped speaking, perhaps realizing he said too much. By then you were vanishing among the shelves in a hurry of panic. Even the medication did not completely block out the sheer, cold dread of what that snatch of conversation heavily implied. 

There was so much more going on to this than your master…your lord and apparent lover was letting on about. Their voices faded rapidly as you found a corner and clamped your eyes shut. Better thralls than you had been culled for knowing less. Had this unintentional eavesdrop been purposeful, Mephiston would not have simply dismissed you outright. Still, the idea of it sank into your mind even as you calmed yourself down. Maybe it was comforting smell of the books and the hushed dark all around you. This was your lord’s sanctuary and you had been invited here personally. Lord Antros was the unexpected guest, not you…right? 

\-------

“Let me see it. Now.” Mephiston ordered coolly, cutting into the conversation as soon as the scholiast departed in a whirl of robes and anxiety. He would need to speak to them soon... 

Antros, however, was almost reluctant to hand it over, eyes striving over it as if seeing details that weren’t there. Rhacelus spoke ill of the boy’s rampant ambition, but until now he never chalked it up to anything malign. Perhaps he should be altering his own plans accordingly. The light in the boy's eyes just…did not seem right when they combed through the salver’s largely blank surface. 

“You see? The design matches the map you’ve been using before. Hopefully it will replace that old thing.” Antros, still excited, hadn’t torn his gaze away from what he called the Ephemeris even as Vidien carefully took it from its master and held it aloft in the flame-light. 

As much as Mephiston wished it, he could not prove the boy wrong. The design was nothing less than a completed copy he was having Vigilance restore now. This was an unexpected and admittedly welcomed factor to his plans. Blind as he might be mechanically hopefully this was the key, along with the rest of the old map, that would allow him to finally anchor his soul to a solution. A location. He could not help the taste of hunger in his mouth or the leap of his hearts in his chest. 

Outwardly, all the chief librarian did was nod, then glare. “You should not have spoken of it in front of the scholiast.” 

Antros blinked owlishly, seemingly immune to his master’s stare. “Why not? They seem like the perfect person to help you with the map. Didn’t you already have the restorationist working on it as well?” 

Mephiston paused. He said not a word of Vigilance to anyone. Not even Rhacelus. That Antros knew…he would need to proceed with him very carefully from now on. 

“I have, yes.” He lied. “But the portents of what I have in mind are dangerous indeed. I do not wish to entangle the scholiast in this web any further than I have to.” 

Antros, oblivious to his lord’s stilted reaction, raised a brow. “Yet you involved the restorationist?” 

The chief librarian shook his head, hiding an uneasy thought. “I am only asking for the information that will complete both this map and the salver. Where did you discover the name Ephemeris?” 

Confirming his own fears, he saw Antros stop completely, as if he were nothing but a recording. His stillness was shocking but it lasted so briefly not even Mephiston could be truly sure. “Isn’t that what this salver is? Isn’t it supposed to be calculating the position of the serpent?” 

Mephiston stared down at the utterly blank surface, completely bare of detail except that coiling snake. A new sense of dread hid itself, deep in his hearts. 

“Yes, Antros.” He spoke. “You are correct. Thank you for finding this. Please, continue your research.” 

Snapping off a smart salute, the boy left to do so promptly and with a smile that Mephiston could safely call eager. Taking breath into all three lungs, the chief librarian smothered a sob into his hands. Just a single, uncontrolled vent of emotion as his hands smeared away the tears. 

\------

When Mephiston found you, you were practically asleep and red eyed. You had not cried per-say but you were close. Now, however, the panic was gone and replaced with an empty feeling you could only define as betrayal. Yet, the moment you looked into his eyes again that all faded. You were as glad to see him as you were when Vidiens first summoned you. His out stretched hand was taken, helping you stand. You’d been curled up in a corner, making yourself small. 

“I have much to confess, my scholiast.” 

His scholiast…yes, that eased your worried heart. You didn’t speak, but you continued to hold his gauntleted hand as he lead you out of the shelves and into the open centre of the chamber. It was just you and him now. Antros long since departed and you found no sign of the salver or Vigilance for that matter. 

A gentle tug and you were automatically pressing yourself into his chest at your lord’s request. He wore his battle plate but you knew he would be no less firm and cold. His kneeling form was even more immense for it as he surrounded you in armored limbs and silken cape. 

“I heard more than I should have.” You croaked into the deep grooves of his chest plates. 

“How much did he tell you?” 

“He told Lord Servatus that he’d found the key to your salvation, and the serpent…I’d never seen anything like it.” 

Mephiston held you closer, as if you might turn to sand and slip away. “It was not meant for human eyes.” 

“I am so sorry!” You cried out, gasping and reaching your arms around his neck. “I should have looked away!” 

“Antros should have been more discreet.” He growled, burying his head against your shoulder. It was almost the size of your whole torso. 

“But, my lord I…I thought you weren’t going to keep me in the dark anymore?” You whispered, almost afraid to speak. 

There was a long pause. Then. “Oh, my scholiast. I am doing just that. The dark I save you from is becoming ever darker the more I try to see. The threads are so entangled that not even I know where they lead. I can not bare to see you ensnared with me. I know I had made a promise, and you a confession, but…” 

“I still love you.” You ensured, boldly. “That won’t change, but how can I help you if you keep secrets?” 

“There is a reason I took you in as my confidant and scribe, scholiast. That has not changed. Just know that I am grateful that you still love me despite my discrepancies but I must shield you from the worst of my sins, least you be punished for them too.” 

You had nothing to reply to that with. A small, desperate part of you wanted to know, sensing something untoward about your master that you dared not bring to light. Yet in the large you knew it was better for your sanity and safety to just…nod and stay quiet. It did not sit well but then you didn’t expect it to. 

“There is the reason I called you to me.” He spoke slowly, uneasily. “When I talked of ghosts I meant them in the very literal sense. They are not more than a pure manifestation of my guilt, but now I am not so sure…” 

“My lord…?” 

“I count your long dead mother among them, scholiast. My hearts still long for her even after all this time.” 

Your own froze, palpitating in your chest. Of all the things you expected him to say, that was not it. Your grip against his grooved chest plate loosened, shocked. 

“Am I wrong to be jealous of your father?” He was clearly no longer speaking to you, but to himself, lost in a memory of your mother you had no idea existed until now. 

By then you’d heard enough. An angered, roaring sob exploded from your mouth before you could stop it, fists balling and striking the unmovable wall of his battle plate. Mephiston realized his mistake and spoke no more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you! Reader and Mephiston's relationship is indeed very complex but hopefully it doesn't come off as toxic. Just very awkward and complicated, considering we're dealing with a human and a centuries old literal death machine. No worries though, there will be a lot of hurt still but all commentary will be handled maturely and all characters are consenting, feeling adults. <3
> 
> I would also like to thank Lucreace for allowing me to write this for her and encouraging me all the same! This fic has helped keep in grounded emotionally in a lot of ways.
> 
> And a thanks to ManaPraxula for all of their detailed feedback! It's really helped me put this fic into perspective.


	17. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstandings lead to shared memories, souls burning in the fire...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a bit late in coming! I decided to take a more unique, intimate approach and hopefully that's done well enough here. Warning though. This is an accurate portrayal of a psychotic episode seen through the perspective of a small child. Thus, read carefully if that might be triggering to you.

The moment Mephiston stopped speaking was also the moment he pulled away out of reach of your balled fists. It reminded you of your father, of Mort, dodging your fury by holding your hands away. A small, frightened part of you bloomed knowing that you could easily be executed for striking your master. Most of you, however, simply did not care. Anger created a sheen of red across your thoughts, blurring reasonability and smothering fear until only the burning cold remained. 

“And when, exactly, were you going to tell me that?” You hissed. 

The chief librarian’s expression was odd. Shocked. Ashamed. Confused. Largely immobile, yet his eyes revealed all. They were like crimson flames dancing in the unsure winds of a storm. 

“Scholiast…” 

“I’d left them behind for a reason!” You continued, quieter. You weren’t looking at him but at the floor in an attempt to calm yourself. You spoke over him purposefully, forcing him to listen. Again, this should have gotten you killed but you refused to shut up or apologize. 

By then your master was starting to process the sharp, cold hatred bleeding from your aura, making an attempt to react correctly. He decided that silence was best for now, face sagging oddly as minute muscles in his skull went slack. You would not admit it, but you appreciated his silence. He stared intently at you, the rest of him motionless and unexpressive. 

“Neither of them were there for me. I don’t think I even remember a time when mother was…” You took a long breath. “When she was sanguine. I don’t blame her for it, not one bit. But I spent most of my late childhood looking after her, not the other way around like its supposed to be. I only really had time for myself when…when she was gone.” 

The confession caused a pang of guilt to twist your stomach. “D-Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she was…wonderful before I came along, but after me?” You swallowed sour spittle. “And I know basically nothing of Mort. I have no idea why he wasn’t around or why he wasn't allowed to tell me he’s my father. Honestly? I don’t care to know either. He wasn’t there so why should I?" 

Mephiston sat on his haunches, watching you carefully and not daring to reach out. When you remained quiet for a time he spoke. “I do not…understand the situation as you might. I remember nothing of my parents, so I suppose they weren’t important either.” 

Grunting in frustration, you turned and looked at him. “That’s…not the same. Knowing them and not having them there at all is…very different.” 

Visible confusion seized his eyes, strange lights dancing behind the sunken sockets. Attempting to apply some kind of context to your words in a way an Astartes might understand. It was all so alien to him. You can tell just from looking at the librarian. The effort silenced him, sending muscles at the corners of his eyes twitching just the slightest. You realized a little too late what you were asking of him and whimpered, returning to his arms. He seemed just as surprised by your grasp as he did when you tried to smite him. 

“I-I’m sorry I don’t…know how I’m going to explain my feelings in a way you can understand.” You’re supposed to be able to decrypt the chief librarian’s many meanings. It’s why you had this role in his life in the first place, and yet…yet you could not overcome this challenge in anything resembling a timely manner. Or at all. 

“I am not sure if anyone could, scholiast.” He murmured soothingly. “Yet we must. That part of my humanity was stripped from me, but that is no excuse. My judgement was poor and I need to see why. I did not…intend to hurt you I promise. That this concept is beyond my understanding thus far is…frustrating.” 

“…why were you in love with my mother at all?” The question fled your lips before you could stop. “Lord Rhacelus said you’d taken confidants from my ancestors before.” 

“That is…information I wasn’t aware you knew.” He sighed. “To answer your question, I have always trusted your family impeccably. Emola herself was a member of my inner circle, the Qurum Empyrric, for centuries before her death. I had…hoped to bring your mother into the Circle as well. It was not to be. If we do indeed survive this entangled mission of mine, I intend to do the same of you.” 

“Me?” You uttered, scared and mystified. “Am I worthy?” 

“Not yet, but I believe you will be. All of my scrying has led to such decisions. Despite the darkness that shrouds my being you are still a single star in the vastness of space. I must go towards it…least I be lost.” 

“You’ve scryed my future?” 

He nodded above you. “I have scryed the futures of all my friends. I have no other choice. Since the Rift…” The chief librarian shook his head. “Perhaps I am loosing myself, but I do not wish to lose what friends I have and so I look ahead for their own sake. Rhacelus, Antros, you, Albinus…even the Lord Commander. Were I to lose any of them it would be one step closer to my damnation.” 

A hard chill ran up your spine, your mind filling with visions of a broken Mephiston kneeling over the bodies of the mentioned…even you. Trying to imagine the potent rage that would be untethered from his soul made your head sick. The chief librarian, apparently sensing your mental projections, shushed you with a few muttered Baalite words. They were old and had no meaning to you, but your body relaxed and your thoughts dissolved. 

“Do not think of that now.” He begged quietly. “Put that idea from your mind. I can’t stand to think of it.” 

You nodded, more than able to agree with that notion. “I am sorry." 

“Do not be, scholiast…my mind is potent and unknowable. I do not expect you to understand even a portion of it.” 

You wanted to at least try. You wanted to reach your hand into his soul and brave the fire and blood even if it peeled the skin from your anatomy, leaving you little better than a living cadaver. However, you quashed that urge before it could fully form. It was delusional, if well meaning. The mind of an Astartes much less that of the chief librarian was not for you to know. That was…hard to accept, but it would get easier. It had to. 

“…but that doesn’t mean you can’t understand mine.” You spoke, a rapturous little idea forming. 

“Scholiast?” 

“Is it possible to see into my mind? I know you said you were blinded…” 

Mephiston made a noise that you took to be mild suspicion. “Of course I can. I have pried information out of many in such a manner. It is…very invasive.” 

You didn’t miss the warning, but you also didn’t really care. “I guess it needs to be. I don’t know how else you’ll understand unless you get to feel it first hand.” 

He paused for a while. It would be like attempting to do surgery with a combat knife. Without a thought he could tear your mind asunder. He’s done it before, with minds stronger than yours. You sensed his hesitancy and forced down another flare of frustration. That he was taking any consideration for your well being at all was heartening, although ultimately useless. There didn’t seem to be any alternatives. 

“I’ll deal with the consequences.” You told him firmly. “I want you to see this. You need to. You don’t need to be so emotionally disengaged.” 

Mephiston appeared to be reluctant, but the look in your eyes reassured him. Pride even gleamed there, apparently pleased with how far you’ve come in displaying your confidence and assertiveness. None the less, what the both of you were about to do was delicate to say the least. 

Drawing a long breath, he began to whisper words that were more like runes. Short, syllabic and smudging at the edge of your hearing. As you mind began to disconnect from your body you felt his icy hands cupping your chin, either keeping his gaze locked to yours or otherwise preventing collapse. The last thing you saw were the candlelights of Mephiston’s smoldering eyes burrowing into yours as the temperature of the room dropped and lumes flickered out… 

\-----

Mephiston gasped with a mouth that was not his. For a precious, disorienting second he saw himself through blurred eyes. He truly was a cadaverous shadow, his form falling into darkness as the lumes fizzled and shut down. The chief felt his own hands gripping the scholiast, icy and unbelievably bony compared to their soft, giving flesh. Seeing himself through someone else’s eyes became daunting, but the experience gratefully slid further and further down into the soft light of sleep. Or as close to it as he could experience. But this was different. Shapes blended together, discoloring even as he tried to focus their eyes into something he could understand. His towering, immobile form became a melting crimson edifice of horror and then blinked out completely. 

It was not a hand on his shoulder that awoke him, but rather the pleasing idea of it. He could not see, but images were none the less starting to form at the corners of his vision like glowing ink dripping into a dark vial of liquid. A gentle tug, diverting his unseeing gaze to one in particular. It coagulated like blood rapidly going sour, color and sensation returning to him before he could prepare himself. 

Mephiston took a dizzying plunge into a tiny robed body, held in what he knew was the pained grip of the scholiast’s mother. It was late. He knew that too, although how he knew not. Too, he was exasperated in the way that sleep deprived young children were. Fretful and agitated. 

“Mum…” He protested with a mouth that was not his. “That hurts! I wanna sleep…” 

He started to struggle, desperately wanting to break free from a grip that wasn’t relenting. “Mum!” 

He gagged slightly as a hand slapped over his mouth, pulling him and the person taking him prisoner further back against the wall. It was at this point that he made himself to focus, biting futilely against the tight cage of fingers. They were in a cell very typical of scribes of lower rank and file. There was little distinguishing it as anything special save for, perhaps, the state of it. It was piled high with old things and unwashed laundry. It was starting to stink with the first hints of moldering sweat. Actually, the robe he was wearing now, a plain white, smelt of sweat that wasn’t his. 

“They’re going to hear you.” The voice whispered, female and terrified. “I can see them, but if you don’t move…” 

He wanted to say they weren’t there. That there was never anything there. Fed up, his hand reached out and tried to flick the near by lamp to life, but the the woman holding him exploded into action. With a lashing hand she knocked the lamp from its corner table and sent it sailing into the far wall with a hiss. Not at him, but at something unseen in the other corner. The lamp was metal and so it did not shatter, but the noise was terrible, startling both him and the woman. 

“Mum!” He shouted now, elbowing away her arms. “No!” 

He were finally away from her, seeing into the scholiast's mother's face for the first time since the invasion. Belloria was nothing more then a husk of the woman he’d once loved. Seeing it through the eyes of her angry, frightened child was even worse. Belloria looked like a starved monk huddled in her rumpled robes, staring down at him with reverent fear. Mephiston was unable to feel anything passed the sheer, growling tantrum the child mind he possessed was trying to contain. 

“I wanna sleep!” He stamped his foot against the stone floor even if it hurt his bare foot. “You’re crazy! I’m tired and I wanna go sleep!” 

His words hit Belloria as if she were physically struck, tears pricking at the edges of her red rimmed eyes. “You can’t…I have to keep watch, I have to-“ 

He growled, the sound so impotent it was almost laughable, but the rage he felt wasn’t. “Mum! I don’t care! You stay up, but I wanna sleep! I have class tomorrow and if Mort sees I’m late again I’m gonna get another lashing!” 

Mort. That name birthed an entirely different emotion in the eyes of the woman as she sat bolt upright. “Mort is a good man!” She shouted. 

“Whatever!” He threw his hands into the air and went storming for the door. He heard the cry before he felt Belloria’s arms trying to snatch at him, but he was quick with practice and went bolting out the door the moment he got it jarred open. His bare feet kept the noise to a minimum. Knowing from past experience that Belloria wouldn’t follow, even as she peered at him through the slit of the door, silently panicking. He did not care. No one else was around and he was not afraid of the dark like she was. One of the guards would eventually find him, they always did, but at least he would get some sleep when they inevitably chunked him into detention. It was better than needing to deal with Belloria’s painful grip and constant, soul staining fear… 

Lifted up and out of the child’s body, Mephiston saw the young scholiast continue to flee down the hall, white robes colored indigo in the night. Belloria’s face still peered through the open cell door, sobbing feebly but never moving to follow. Never even making the attempt, rooted to the spot by anxiety and things only she could see. Without the child’s emotions to cloud his judgement, he felt a forlorn sadness wash over him. This wasn’t the woman he’d fallen in love with. This was someone else. The Belloria he’d known had been stolen away by this mental illness with little he could have done on his part. 

“I tried…” He said to the presence of the scholiast at his shoulder. “I tried to speak to her, even then.” 

They tugged at him again, a ghost rather than any actual physical touch. “I did too. A lot of people did. She never really…listened. I don’t think she realized something was wrong with her. Doesn’t make what she did to me any less painful. I know you said she was screened and wasn’t…corrupted, but she never got better did she?” 

“No.” The finality of the statement was laced with something that felt shamefully close to disappointment. He wasn’t sure if this was the scholiast’s thoughts…or his. Perhaps a little of both. Belloria was gone. He knew that. They knew that too. The only difference was that his feelings were lingering. Their’s were not. 

He was lifted up again, vanishing through a perceived ceiling and gently tossed back into the aether. “I feel awful about it but I didn’t know what she had done to me wasn’t right until I started talking to Patience.” 

“Patience?” 

As the question emerged from the aether so did another image. A black robed thrall of the chaplaincy, thin, short and void-born they none the less had the same meek but amiable expression he was used to seeing on the scholiast. They were surrounded by a myriad of moldering flowers and memorial offerings, standing in a hall of battle damage decades old. He knew nothing of this thrall but impressions from the scholiast brought understanding. Mephiston hid a sudden, agonizing distaste. The name Diurniel rang in his skull. Patience was the child of the thralls killed in this part of the ship during the invasion…named by the same dead chaplain that now haunted him relentlessly. He shielded all of this from the scholiast, unwilling to taint their memories with such revelations. 

“So you see, my lord, I had no frame of reference until recently.” Their voice was gleaming with shame and disappointment. “I guess it was the first time I felt…validated.” 

Validation. That was another emotion he was just vaguely familiar with. Becoming clear only when he thought of Lord Commander Dante and his equerry. How many times had he been spurned by everyone else save Dante and Rhacelus? Too many, he thought. But these were private ideas, to be contemplated later when he returned to his own body. 

“I will not mention your mother again, if that is what you wish.” He said, suddenly. 

A wash of mild surprise at his back. “I would…appreciate that. I feel terrible for being glad about that though.” 

“You have shown me that you have no happy memories of her. It would be cruel of me to continue suggesting otherwise. My memories of her are not yours and my feelings towards your father are old and irrelevant. You’ve known him as such for such a short amount of time as to be practically useless.” He stayed his words. “No…not useless, but you had so little time to decide if you wanted to care or not.” 

“N-No, not really. I’m going to sound mean, but I don’t think I would have wanted to know him anyways. To me he’s just Sector Deputy Mort, a strict but otherwise alright man. Not my father. Not in any way that matters.” 

Mephiston had to agree with that. Mort was no parent despite having a biological child to his name. Did that make the man a terrible person? The chief librarian had little idea and couldn’t bring himself to be concerned about it either. All he cared about now was the scholiast who’s mind he currently occupied. They were containing him with surprising ease, although he can feel his conscience beginning to strain and probe at the edge of their being. Mephiston had been careful to let only the most infinitesimal sliver of his soul touch with theirs, but even that was little better than diluted poison. 

“I will need to leave you soon.” 

“You can let me go. I think you’ve seen enough.” 

And so he did. 

\-----

Overcome with the same dizzying, dissociative impression as before, you reeled. Falling. Becoming. For a moment you dropped not into your body but in that of Lord Mephiston’s. Seeing yourself through his eyes was like prey through the eyes of a predator. Enhanced into mind numbing detail, his powerful mind whirling with calculations too swift and complex for your gentle soul to comprehend. 

Then your perspective whirled wildly, shifting a full degree before literally slamming back into your body. The force of it staggered you. Much like gravity reasserting itself. When you were guiding Mephiston through your mind, his conscience a hot flame you could barely stand to touch, the laws of physics simply did not apply. You could fly through the walls of your memories as easily as you could step through water. All too happily your brain had accepted that, pulling your master through and around despite the heat of his being. 

But now you were returned and the unbalanced state of your body became apparent once more. You keened sharply and went limp in his grasp, wanting to vomit. Wanting to scream. A part of you felt scorched where your master had been, a burn on your very soul, or mind. It hurt and nothing would sooth it save time. None the less, you were calm. He understood. His words had done everything to reassure you of that and you felt proud of yourself for it. 

As your body recovered from the sudden, bone jarring spasm, Mephiston regained his senses and lowered you to the carpeted floor with careful ease. Eventually your body slowly unlocked itself, a persistent soreness prevailing that did nothing to spoil your mood. You were smiling. 

“I am…glad you understand me, master.” Was all you could say through a gurgling throat. Swallowing helped. 

“I was surprised, scholiast. I did not expect you to handle this so well. I feared I would hurt you, or you would continue to be angry with me in some way.” He stopped himself. “I thought…I thought if we connected our minds you might be subjected to the madness I wish to spare you from.” 

“Being near you burned.” You muttered, rubbing your head even if that’s not where the lingering pain originated at all. “It was like having my bare hands forced over a naked flame. It hurt but I don’t think I minded it. I knew exactly what I wanted to show you and I didn’t hesitate.” 

He nodded, visibly releasing tension. Both of his hands framed your fragile body, leaning over you as if shielding you from a blow. “Can you rise?” 

As he moved away, you did your best to. Your brain still felt as if it were held to your body with wax and string but your limbs obeyed you. To your right you saw Mephiston waving and Vidiens drifted from its unseen roost in the rafters, bearing a cup of water and an ointment that smelt of menthol. You waved off the salve but gratefully gulped down the water, unaware of just how dry your throat had become. 

As the water rinsed away the fog, a thought occurred to you. “My lord? Do you know where Vigilance is?” 

“I do not. Last I spoke to her was yesterday.” 

“I remember her leaving Patience’s cell but she wasn’t back this morning.” You explained. “She and Patience share a cell so I stayed with Patience overnight.” 

“That is odd. She should have returned and started preparing to move her possessions into these chambers.” 

“You’re moving her here?” 

“Yes. I wish for you and Vigilance to work on something for me. She’ll be able to explain the details. Come. We will look for her. Similarly, I have not heard from Rhacelus since yesterday. It’s not like him to forgo speaking to me for more than a day.” 

You nodded. Your limbs didn’t feel completely under your control just yet, but walking got easier as you stood and forced yourself forward. Mephiston, matching your pace with yours, swept out of his personal study and through the unreal exit. Immediately he paused, apparently confused. 

“Mm, he’s near by. All that’s here are meeting alcoves and minor scriptoria. Not exactly a place he would stand to be in for long.” By then he was moving faster, tugging you along as your hands clung to the edge of his cape. 

Surely enough Rhacelus had not gone far. A small, glimmering ball of dust formed above Mephiston’s index finger as he pointed it towards the ceiling. It ignited with a spark of will, glowing far brighter than it should. Rhacelus was in one of the meeting alcoves, but not alone. Nor was he fully armored. His chest plate was set aside, as was…another very important piece of armor. That he wasn’t reacting at all to the beam of firelight directed at his face meant the old librarian was either asleep or so out of it as to not even care. He groaned a bit, shifting enough for you to notice the other figure was human. And also naked. 

“…Vigilance?” You whispered, realizing who it was. 

“Rhacelus, you’re hung over.” Mephiston muttered, a tinge of amusement entering his voice. 

While the light had done little to wake him, the words certainly did. Luminous eyes of intense cobalt snapped open and then immediately squinted shut with such force his jaw creaked. 

“Bloody hell! I…oh.” 

“Is that Vigilance?” Mephiston asked. 

Rhacelus blinked hard, looking down as if just noticing the naked woman for the first time. He grunted and poked her with an armored figure. She groaned, swatting at his finger and flopping off his lap. “Mmm’ drunk.” She moaned.

“She’s fine.” 

Raising a brow, the chief librarian took in the state of his equerry and decided not to ask anymore questions. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly what had happened and could only grin at the older librarian. Rhacelus blushed, both hung over and embarrassed but didn’t move. 

“We have found your missing colleague at least.” He told you. “But I believe we should leave her be for now, aye?” 

You ignored the glare Rhacelus sent you when you giggled, hiding behind your master. “Yes, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would also gently suggest you read Influnence if you want to see what Rhacelus and Vigilance were up to since the last chapter. ;)
> 
> Either way, enjoy and leave a comment if you wish!


	18. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares become reality and what was once known become blurred and confused...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So chapter is gonna seem a little jarring at first, but I've worked to built up this particular encounter for a while yet. It'll tie in very closely to canon events that I'm also working on slowly building towards. More than that, this is a chapter where the human characters get to have their moments of interaction with their Astartes masters and be a lot more involved in their lives than previously. Patience, Vigilance and Reader will be heavily involved with canon events and my own side plots from now on, including those of the Astartes!

Waking the next morning was a little harder than usual. Your dreams were plagued by vague memories that weren’t yours. In them you knew the name Calistarius but not why, nor whom it belonged to. At a few points you could swear you were him. Oh, a Blood Angel surely. A librarian. But the details were smeared into obscurity as all dreams tended to be in the long run. You remembered another name, too.

Armageddon. 

You knew that name, at least. Who wouldn’t? The cursed planet, overrun by orks. The long, terrible war and the countless chapters dedicated to its defense. Whole sectors of the Blood Angel’s librarius were set aside to chronicle its various horrors. You’d read, thankfully, only enough to satisfy your education before putting it out of mind. There was only so much you could stand to read about literal millions of orks and heavily censored mentions of daemons far earlier in the planet’s bloody, bloody history. It made you gag. 

Thankfully you were spared any further revelations as you were suddenly awake. Vigilance apparently elected not to return that night and so you once again stayed with Patience, who was softly snoring in the bottom bunk. Your throat felt dry, your eyes raw yet the rest of you felt…strange. At peace. But it wasn’t a peace that you could safely call yours. Perhaps a shard of your master yet remained within your soul? A still healing scar? You could recall the comfortable agony of his presence within your mind but didn’t recall him sharing any memories other than your own. Grumbling and scrubbing at your eyes, you made a mental note to speak with him about it later. For now, your mouth craved the taste of water. 

Patience’s cell was vastly different than the sort assigned to scholiasts, as evidenced by its proximity to their master’s sanctuary and the small kitchenette that completely dominated the entire upper right corner. It wasn’t much, just a small kettle stove and a refridge unit welded into the wall itself, but still highly convenient. You could see why Vigilance was bunking here up until recently. 

You weren't expecting to see something when you turned around after you feet hit the decking. Your eyes met with a headless monstrosity. You didn’t even register it as anything but a brutalized shape until it turned around and stared at you with eyes it did not have.

“Be. Not. Afraid.” It wheezed in your direction.

It took you all of your will power to slowly back away, staying utterly silent until Patience hissed and yanked you to them. This entire time you had merely thought your friend was only seeing things like your dead mother. You were wrong, because the thing they kept seeing in the corner…was right there. 

It was a Blood Angel, or…had been. He was eviscerated, his organs left to wetly drip in a shallow puddle against his boots. A column of shadow was held skillfully in one hand, where a weapon used to belong. His neck ended at the gorget, the viscera glinting jewel like where a bit of vertebra was visible beneath the desiccated meat of his neck. All the more visible when he hunched over, supposedly to get a better look at the two of you. The only reason you did not vomit was thanks to an empty stomach. 

“My, lord…” Patience nervously spoke directly to him. You had no idea why, or how they managed the will to do that. “Please…the Chief Librarian…”

At the mention of that title a sort of palpable fury infused the room as a very physical glow that emanated from the dead space marine. He was a chaplain, you realized. A luminous mist constantly spilled from the rents in his armor, turning from a sickly blue-green to a deep red like atomized blood, turning the sable coloring of his armor all the darker.

“Do. Not. Trust. Him.” He wheezed through a bleeding vox grill in his chest. “He. Is. Death! He. Is. The. End!”

Screams boiled in his wake. Sprouting from the pool of sacred organs and connective tissue were butchered piles of flesh that were only slightly human. Or, again, had been. You recognized a face bathed in blood. A screaming woman with her brain cloven open, visible when she turned in the right direction. Hair plastered to what remained of her neck. You could not see the second figure as anything but vaguely male. His skin was a bubbling, ulcer ridden membrane that barely covered the chemically boiled muscle underneath. Yet he screamed. Oh, he screamed and held aloft a charred lasrifle as if it would do him any good.

Something delicate broke in Patience, their face twisting into an ugly, enraged snarl. “Get out! Get out! Get out!!” 

They stood and darted for the nearest object, throwing it with such violence the air whistled. An unwashed pot from last night’s supper did not sail through the body of the chaplain like you had hoped, but clanged loudly against solid ceramite. He stood, completely still save for the constant dripping of his open wounds and the mist slithering from his armor. 

“…oh, my. Children. Did you not think I was real?”

Something broke in you as well, and without thinking or even screaming you grabbed Patience and dragged them bodily towards the exit. All you could think to do was wrench open the door and run. Patience did not protest, panting in terror as they helped you throw open the lock and barged out into the hall. You were faster and stronger than the other thrall and so you grabbed them again, your feet jolting as they hit the decking so hard your bones jarred in your skin. Beating them like a bird beats its wings. Only when you flung yourself out into the Grand Chapel did you both begin to wail. 

“He’s not supposed to be real!” Patience sobbed. “I swear, I thought this was a nightmare!”

Neither of you stopped until you came to the red garnet altar, huddling behind it like scared children. 

“You mean you didn’t know!?” You demanded in a harsh whisper, fearing the thing might have followed you both. 

“He’d only appeared in my nightmares until now!” Patience replied, whispering just as harshly, unable to keep their voice down much. Yet both of you immediately went silent. 

A steady thump, thump, thump was heading up the steps, from the direction of the residential hall. Tears were streaming down Patience’s cheeks. You held them as you made yourselves as small as possible, hiding in your robes and covering Patience’s body with your own. Above you came the soft grind of stone against ceramite. Then the sharp, wet sigh of damaged pneumatics locking something into place. Like an old airlock struggling to pressurize. 

Several seconds of silence and only then did you risk opening a single eye. Immediately, you regretted it. A pair of greaves stood in front of you the color of aged bone edged in pale gold that possessed an unearthly, but not unholy sheen. Too, it seemed that just its presence drained the energy from the room. Frost soon rimed the sleeves of your robes and chilled the sweat on your cheeks. It threw diffused light across Patience’s sobbing, icy face as the armored legs turned and stepped around the altar. It made far too little sound to be comfortable, or even real. Confused as you were scared, you felt Patience grab and drag you away. Daring to look back, you saw only the sweep of a shimmering golden cloak and then your friend was barreling down the steps and out of the Grand Chapel proper. Both of you were beyond crying. Beyond screaming. Beyond calling for help. No one was around at this hour or in this section of the ship. And so you ran. 

Patience gasped and with a surprising amount of strength, physically tossed you into a room that smelt a little rank and then threw themself in after you. For a terrifying moment then there was pure darkness as the other thrall slammed the door shut, locking it with its old, uncomplicated latch. Then you found the lume panel. 

“…the toilet box?” You gaped, incredulous. 

Patience replied by leaning over the box and vomiting heavily into its depths, frost powdering from their shoulders. You did not ask anymore questions.

It was a long night. Resisting the urge to sleep was like holding back a tide, but fear kept you both awake, nervously pressed against the sheet metal door in an effort to hear something. Anything. You expected to hear the sounds of a battle. Of infiltrator alarms piercing the still night air. Stamping boots racing by to get into the Chapel, accompanied by the harsh snap of bolters. The silence was somehow worse.

And still the temperature dipped. Exactly the way it did when Lord Mephiston dived into your mind. This was hardly any different and your mind rang with warnings of warp craft. Muttering prayers to the Great Angel your hands plunged into your pockets, trying to warm them. They found the cool, heavy weight of Antros’s blood stone…and sighed. Its touch calmed you, if only just.

Shivering and huddling as far into a corner as possible, you held Patience and they held you, both for warmth and for comfort. Neither of you had much to say, not that you would willingly speak to begin with. Not when…whatever those had been still lurking outside. Tears, however, were free to flow and did not stop until dehydration and hunger made it too painful to keep going. 

Eventually, sleep won.

A sharp jolt of metal against metal woke you, inviting a blade of light to slice through the darkness of the toilet box. A towering silhouette broke the blinding light, its hulking winged visage topped with a glowering ivory skull. The chaplain. 

Your immediate instinct was to scream and so you did, waking Patience and causing them to begin screaming as well. Startled, the figure did not approach but rather drew back apparently not expecting to find you yowling, crammed at the very back of the toilet box. 

Patience was the first to stop, because they knew who it was. 

“Lord Incariel!” They struggled free of your grip and weakly stamped over to flop against him. 

Lord Incariel, so named, grunted and warily held the dryly gasping thrall to his chest plate, then moved to peer at you. “…are you the scholiast?”

“Y-Yes, my lord?” Shivering you made yourself stand and walk. Your joints were stiff from sleep and dehydration, making the effort feel as if you were climbing rather than ambling just a few feet. Warily, you realized he was not the dead chaplain but rather the living one. The one who had introduced you to Patience in the first place. You would have cried were your eyes not so dry. 

To your relief he did not ask questions, merely gathered you in his other arm and bore you both off the floor and down the hall. With a haste you thought strange at first, he powered his way back towards the Grand Chapel. 

“I’ve found them!” He barked and a sanguinary priest responded. 

Wait, why was there a sanguinary priest? Then you saw it.

Something indeed happened that night, even if you didn’t hear it. Massive splashes of old, dry blood and pieces of what looked to be coagulated meat or organs littered the sacred space of the Grand Chapel. All coalescing at the altar where it smelt like a charnel house. No obvious signs of a struggle, but there was so much strange powder and unfamiliar foot prints scattered everywhere that there had to have been one. Almost the entire floor was covered in it. 

Even more confusing was the team of armsmen who stopped tramping up and down the antechambers the moment Lord Incariel returned. Many of them were blurting into their vox units that you’d been found. You didn’t even realize you were missing. All of the armsmen scattered however as one of the white armored sanguinary priests shouldered past them to collect you and Patience. 

“I was gone?” You wheezed. 

You did not know the name of the priest, who nodded. “For nearly three days.”

“Three days!?” You screeched, only to be shushed. The building surge of panic was swiftly quieted when he gently but firmly shoved a canteen of water into your mouth. 

“Three days.” He confirmed. 

Patience, for their part, refused to let go of Incariel entirely and so the sanguinary priest had to pry them off. You were too busy sucking the canteen dry to notice. Just as clarity was returning to your mind, thunderous footsteps raced into the Grand Chapel. Lord Mephiston, flanked by both Rhacelus and Antros, came not towards the gore strewn altar, but towards you and Patience. Incariel, seeing the current masters of the ship approach, backed away. Even the sanguinary priest went a little stiff, but you rolled away from him with a grunt, eager to look upon your master again. 

“What happened, scholiast?” He rasped, sounding both concerned and angry. His tone might have rattled you before but you knew him now. The shard of his soul was fading, but it left with it more than enough understanding to know he’d been worried. Excessively so.

“I…” You swallowed another globule of water and gummy spittle. “Patience?”

Your friend looked a little better now, their eyes less hollow. Not as tense. They paled visibly at Lord Mephiston’s presence though they only stared at him for a moment. “Y-Yes…?”

“I think…” You coughed. “I think we need to start talking. About what we saw. What you’ve been…seeing.”

“Throne of Terra.” They cursed softly, struggling to sit up. 

The sanguinary priest shook his head. “They need to rehydrate. Possibly be fed an IV, my lord. Can this…wait?”

Lord Mephiston sat back on his haunches, waiting. To you it seemed like he desperately wanted to hold you. To reach into your mind himself to see, personally, if you were alright. You wanted that too, but you also really, really wanted something to eat. Medical treatment had to come first. 

Rhacelus spoke up, returning to his old friend’s side after completing a slow circuit around the Grand Chapel with Antros. “Best send them off. Nothing’s changed here since we found it like this three days ago.”

After a long pause, Mephiston nodded and the sanguinary priest collected both you and Patience. A team of medicae thralls withdrew from their investigations and swarmed around him. There were about five in total, all of them helping you and Patience walk once you were released. Patience seemed fit to swat some of them, but thought better of it when the priest gave them a look. At least until someone came barreling towards them once you managed to be half carried out of the Grand Chapel.

The priest made an attempt to warn her off, but Vigilance wasn’t having any of it and practically bulled her way through his servants to get at you and Patience. Her face was a mask of worry and anger, much like your master’s had been but it was obvious she might have been crying. Patience grinned awkwardly and embraced the woman so tightly their joints seemed to creak. 

“Throne of Terra, I’m so sorry. I should have come back earlier.” Vigilance growled, even as she elbowed at another thrall trying to pull her off. Patience wasn’t letting themselves be taken away from her either. 

“You’re here though, and the scholiast was with me so…so I wasn’t alone.” They wheezed. Vigilance insisted on carrying them herself, lifting the thrall with surprising ease. She reached out to you as well, gripping your hand. You hadn’t realized she cared that much, honestly. It made you nearly sob despite the situation, and more than a little grateful to see her escorting you to the medicae. 

Vigilance left only when the priest, who’s name you learned was Bellerion, gently threatened to have her thrown out. She obeyed, but only just. At this point, reaching the black iron doors and smelling the sterile smell of the medical wing, was where you and Patience were separated…

\----

Back in the Grand Chapel, Lord Incariel slowly swayed his head from side to side. Indeed very little had changed since his thrall and the Scholiast had gone missing. That they were found was, in fact, the biggest discovery they’ve made since. The only only other factor they knew for sure was that Lord Diurniel’s helm was gone. Taken off the dust and powder covered altar. By whom, no one but the thralls probably knew. More unsettling was the lack of footage. The entire Grand Chapel was watched 24/7 by rotating circuits of servo skulls and cherubim servitors constantly wheeling about in the rafters and along the domed fresco of Sanguinius. Recording, cleaning and reporting. None of them had seen a thing. In fact, strangely, all of them hadn’t even been functional, nor had their fail safe systems activated to let their care takers know of the system crash. 

To Incariel it stank of subterfuge and he didn’t like it. The librarians, when they arrived and were informed of the findings thus far, had refuted that opinion. That made him feel worse. So much worse. Especially now that his poor thrall was apparently involved. He loved Patience like they were his offspring and Lord Mephiston appeared to feel similarly about his own thrall. Incariel had only met the scholiast once and so could not comment on their relationship to Mephiston, but Patience had in no uncertain words called them their friend. That meant a lot to his thrall, who up until recently only invited himself and Vigilance into their life. That they’d been found together, huddled in the toilet box like scared children, said a lot of what they thought of each other now.

Incariel stood, uneasily watching as Lord Mephiston distractedly sifted a small pile of the strange powder through his gloved fingers. It was, after the sanguinary priest confirmed it, bone dust. And the splashes of dried blood layered on and under the dust was Astartes. But so old as to have been there for far longer than three days. Incariel could viciously confirm this was not the case at all. Efforts to clean it or even sample it had been for nought. It clung to the rugs and polished black marble floor with such insistence it was as if it were part of the flooring. 

As for the dust…that cleaned easily, but it was literally everywhere. On the altar, embedded in the carpets, nestling in the nooks and crannies of the artful stonework and even hazing the sacred image of their Father high above. 

Looking at his distant and dead Father, Incariel’s eyes narrowed under the lenses of his skull helm. “What in the name of the Emperor happened here…?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a slightly shorter chapter as well, as I didn't want to introduce too much right away. For reference, this is a sort of headcanon build up of what might have possibly happened with Mephiston's demon hunt between the events of Blood of Sanguinius and Reventant Crusade, where it's forced to take a detour before continuing on to Darkness in the Blood and then, finally, City of Light. Thus I'm working on ways to connect all of these books together in a way that heavily involves the Reader and the rest of the none canon characters. 
> 
> Bellerion, the sanguinary priest, is a character of another friend. Patience, Vigilance and Incariel of my own creation specifically for this story to more or less serve as side characters for Reader's own development. 
> 
> Enjoy!


	19. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having recovered, you face the fact that you witnessed something you shouldn't have, and now everyone else is caught off guard. You are left with only more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to get this done! This is slowly weaves further into canon material, as you'll start seeing in the next few chapters. I'm not sure how involved the reader and their friends will be in Revenant Crusade, but all events thus far will lead up to the key scenes of that book so be prepared! ;)

It took you and Patience a few days more to fully recover. After the first day you were thoroughly and completely tired of not moving. Apparently, you’d also been truly ignorant to how close you’d come to a serious medical emergency. A few hours more and you might have begun to suffer permanent brain damage. Patience had it slightly worse. Their throwing up in the toilet box and subsequent anxiety attack hadn’t done them any favors, but they were reportedly alright now. So were you. 

To be honest it wasn’t so bad. A lot of time spent sleeping, but you got surprisingly little of it. Medicae thralls and even the sanguinary priests themselves checked you at least once an hour for the first night. Aggressively hydrating orally hadn’t done you much good then either. You drank and drank to the point of upsetting your hungry belly, resulting in vomiting up little else but clear, filmy fluid. Then you had to deal with the indignity of a nasogastric feeding tube and IV hydration. By day two that was removed and you felt less of an urge to drink so much. 

The end of the third day, Vigilance appeared late at night. She was not invited, nor admitted, but she showed up at the foot of your bed when you winked an eye open. You nearly screamed, because she looked like she was desperately trying to hide. That is, the only thing you could see were her eyes and the very top of her head. When the woman saw that you were awake she grinned like a fox and crept over with something in a jar that was sticky and the color of straw or old bone. 

“It’s honey.” She promised, as if you knew what that was. You did not. But she offered you a spoonful and it was so sweet you almost gagged. Yet, looking back on it, it was the best thing you ever tasted. When the night charge thrall clambered in to check your vitals she managed to vanish. Where, exactly, you had no idea and had even less of an idea to report it to the thrall. 

Which…ended up not being necessary. Behind the other thrall loomed the white armored shape of a sanguinary priest. One who might have come to check you before, but you couldn’t recall. It wasn’t the one who had admitted you surely, because this one sounded irritated. He snarled, bent over double and then dragged a cursing Vigilance out from under your bed, holding her off the floor by her wrist. He was about to scold her when the woman immediately interrupted him. 

“Free the thralls!” And then detached her wrist, hit the floor with both feet and bolted out the door. Both the charge thrall and his master stared at the detached hand and wrist. It was an augment covered in synth skin. Despite having witnessed a literal phantom, possibly two of them, this was easily the most surprising thing you discovered since leaving Baal. 

The sanguinary priest, Damos, finally took his eyes off the hand and said. “…we’re discharging you tomorrow.” 

———————————————————————————————————————

Finally out of the sterile white medicae robes, a canteen of cool water in your hand, you met Patience at the door. They looked fresher, but their skin still seemed to cling to the small bones of their skull until their face was a tracery of fine blue veins. Yet their eyes were clear and lips were no longer dangerously chapped. They weren’t smiling.  
“Patience?” You whispered, coming over to place an arm around them. An easy feat as they were both shorter than you and hunched over slightly. 

The other thrall gulped. “I’m…I don’t know. I think I saw Diurniel again.”

“I-In the medicae room?” You whimpered, unable to contain the nervousness in your voice. “He didn’t hurt you did he?”

Patience slowly shook their head. “He’s never hurt me. The exact opposite. And…I don’t know if he was just a fever dream. I was sick…”

You pulled Patience closer to your robed body, leading them out of the hall so your conversation could be as private as possible. Sanguinary priests were still stumping in and out of the apothecarium’s main entrance. You could hear the ring of their boots on the decking and white robed thralls were everywhere. 

You dabbed at your friend’s sweating face. “…Patience, do you remember seeing anyone else in the chapel that night?” You asked in hissing whispering. 

“What do you mean?” Patience paused their nervous glancing, seemingly all the more horrified at your implication. “It was just Diurniel coming after us! Throne, please tell me that’s all you saw!”

Pushing Patience into the back wall with a grunt, you smothered their tone with the sleeve of your robe. “Shh! It was just the back of his armor and a cape, but I know it was someone else. Another Astartes. He stepped around the altar towards the phantom after you pulled me out from under the altar.”

Patience shook their head. “How in the name of the Great Angel are we going to explain any of this without looking insane?”

You looked your friend hard in the eye. “You don’t remember what the chapel looked like when we were found? All of the old blood and that strange white dust?”

“N-No!” Patience blurted. “I was…I was dizzy and just wanted to close my eyes. When lord Incariel had me all I could do was cling to him and moan. Even when they were taking us to the medicae wing I didn’t see much. I had such a horrible headache.”

Now you looked away, face coloring in shame. Your friend had it worse than you thought. “I’m so sorry, Patience. For not coming to check on you.”

The other thrall elbowed you. “I don’t think the priests would have let us leave the bed unnecessarily, let alone visit one another. Vigilance kept me company though. Rather the priests wanted her to or not.”

“You too? Was that what she was up to? Sneaking around?”  
Patience hid a grin. “You don’t know her too well yet, but that woman is…well, she’s got her ways.”

The event just an hour ago still had you baffled. “You mean that her left hand is an augment? Because she got caught and dragged off the floor by lord Damos. She yelled at him and escaped when she detached the hand…I was very confused.”

Patience smothered a bark of laughter. “Most of her is augmented! She just hides it all under a lot of very expensive synth-skin.” 

“That…well, that explains a lot. What about her is still organic?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know either!” Patience giggled. “Aside from that and the fact that she’s had a lot of rejuvenate treatments, Vigilance prefers to keep herself a secret until the opportunity strikes. It’s how she surprises people.” 

“…lord Damos was certainly very surprised, at least. Is she going to be in trouble for that?”

“Most likely.” Patience waved their hand, dismissing the subject. The two of you were about to move out of the corridor when lord Rhacelus appeared. 

The color drained from Patience’s face at the sight of the ancient librarian, hiding behind you as you looked up and attempted to stand firm. “M-My lord?”

Ignoring Patience’s cowering form, the epistolary peered directly at you. “You are being summoned by the Quorum Empyrric, scholiast. You and the other thrall both. We’re going to figure out exactly what you saw that night.”

Hiding the growing pit of disquiet in your recently rehydrated gut, you muttered to Patience, carefully dragging them along. Thralls and sanguinary priests both made way for lord Rhacelus, who cut his way through him as a shark would through water. Your friend might have been born and raised on this ship, but it was obvious where you were going wasn’t an area attended by thralls, let alone attendants such as them and yourself. 

The hall was sized for the sons of Primarchs, lined with marble and finery worth entire hive worlds. Processions of golden angels greeted you with intense hollow eyes and outstretched wings that, when glanced at too closely, might have contained hidden plasma weapons and highly advanced tracking cameras. This was a space Lord Commander Dante himself walked, welcoming guests of all chapters and regiments. He was not present, but the grande hall was doing a very, very good job of reminding you who this ship belonged to. Even if its lord and master had not stepped foot in it since Baal’s invasion. 

Finally, you were led through through a vaulted portal held aloft by regal, winged lions carved from polished red sandstone. Eyes shined to a mirror glint, they looked like blind saints forever sworn to protecting just this one doorway. Two Primaris Blood Angels guarded the doors. Both sergeants. Agorix and Lupum. You had never met them before and likely would never get to. As soon as Rhacelus approached, the Primaris saluted and peeled back the massive wooden doors. The epistolary only gave you and Patience a half glance before expecting you to follow. 

The room beyond was the hall in miniature. Grand, but contained. This was a place of business and war. Centered directly in front of you sat a massive oval table carved from a single piece of polished sandstone just like the blind lions outside, but it was devoid of decoration save for the holo-projector mounted in its center and the tasteful bevel work of its heavy frame. Looking out into the void was a yawning oculus, but its eye was shut by a full yard and a half of adamantium. War banners hung in stately rows, hiding the ceiling and the air scrubbers concealed in the walls and corners. It smelt of sacred oils and recent repair. Even so, the chamber was dull compared to its current occupants. You had already met every single one of them, but only individually up until now. Together, the awed terror you were bred to feel when approaching your masters returned. It took all of your strength to avoid prostrating yourself before them, holding onto Patience to prevent them from doing just that themself. 

As was his right, lord Mephiston sat at the fore, his demeanor cold but not icy. To his left was codicer Antros and to his right, Rhacelus was quick to abandon you and take his place. Fanned out to either side of them were two sanguinary priests, but the only one standing was lord Damos. And, surprisingly, right beside him was Vigilance, apparently whole again as well. The other priest you vaguely remembered as lord Bellerion, the one who saw to you in the chapel. Also in attendance and a good bit taller than the rest was chaplain Incariel. He was clearly the only Astartes present who didn’t invoke a sense of immediate dread in your friend. You could tell Patience wanted to go to his side, but to do so would be a breach of ceremony that would likely result in something worse than dehydration.

Incariel was also the only one habitually helmed. The others all had their helms off and sat off to the side on the table or maglocked to their belts. You have never seen Bellerion or Damos without their helms and so recognized them only by their scrollwork and armor markings. Neither of them were Primaris, but Bellerion was still apparently youthful, or at least his face remained amiable. Well tanned skin from centuries in the field and a scar to match, crawling straight across the bridge of his nose and just below his eyes. A track of dull pink.  
Damos, however, was old although not strictly ancient as lord Rhacelus was. He was darker in the skin and more viciously marked, and looked to be ritual scarification at first, but on second glance the design seemed...off. As if the knife had skittered off his skin in a moment of distraction...or rebellion. His eyes too were striking. An angry grey-blue in a face that knew nothing of smiles save for when it was coated in blood. His left pauldron and vambrace was strange as well. Silver and carved in complex hexagrammic structures. You knew it only from readings in some of the chapters older footnotes. Death Watch. 

But before you could contemplate, or fear him further, Mephiston motioned for you both to take a seat. As the meeting chamber had been designed for humans in mind as well as Astartes, the chairs you and Patience found yourselves in were sized for people. If rather larger than per usual. The others were similarly arranged, all save Damos and Vigilance still, who looked as if she were searching for ways to escape. A fact that was not lost on the senior sanguinary priest. 

“Bellerion.” Mephiston spoke, startling you and Patience both. “Explain to the Quorum Empyrric that condition of the thralls when they were found.”

So summoned, Bellerion stood and unclipped a data slate from his armor as Damos watched. “The missing person report that was sent in arrived approximately five hours after midnight. They were found in the toilet box just outside of the chapel hall no less than three days and two hours later. Collectively, this led to nearly four full days of dehydration and related starvation. They were aggressively rehydrated and fed. Thankfully no permanent physical or mental damage resulted save for persistent fatigue and, in Patience’s case, apparent night terrors.”

Patience’s cheeks colored, but mindfully kept silent.

“Presented with their current medical status, do you deem them fit to speak of what they witnessed?” Rhacelus asked, directing his cold, cobalt gaze on you and the other thrall. A sensation like icy claws raked across the inside of your skull. Uncomfortable, but not enough to hurt. Patience moaned in surprise, but nothing more. You knew, from having felt it before, that the epistolary had combed through your minds. Had this been any other situation it would have been an invasion of your privacy, punishable even for librarians of his rank. This was required. What you and Patience saw could very well have been…from the outside. It was a question of purity now. Undeniably so.

“I do.” Damos replied a moment later. “And I am here to present another. Vigilance has, as I have told lord Mephiston, insisted on speaking her part as well.” He grunted and tugged at the woman’s sleeves, as if testing to see if they would come off just as easily as her hand had. Vigilance had to nerve to glare slightly, but remained silent too.

“As Damos is here with another source of information, I come with mine. Particularly on what findings we were able to collect while the thralls were missing, and in the days following their treatment.” Incariel spoke. His voice was the only one distorted by the growl of a vox, face totally obscured behind the glowering skull of his helm. 

Rhacelus kept his eyes locked on you and Patience for a moment longer before the concentration melted from his face. “I can also attest to the purity of their souls as well. No taint to speak of save for the usual human fear.”

“Then it is no question on their ability to speak?” Mephiston fixed you with an unreadable look. Here, he was your master, not your lover. You had no idea if he was concerned for you, nor was it your right to know. Not right now.

“None.” The current members of the Quorum Empyrric spoke almost as one. 

The chief librarian nodded slowly. “Then we shall start from the beginning. What happened before you were found three days later, what were your locations?”

For a small stretch of time there was silence as you and Patience looked one another over. None of you had the courage to speak up at first, but your words soon enough couldn’t be contained.  
“It was the night after our last meeting, my lord.” You spoke. “Vigilance wasn’t back and Patience asked that I stay with them so I did. I wasn’t sure what time I woke up, but I did. I wasn’t…expecting what I saw, but…”

Patience’s brow suddenly furrowed, grabbing your arm. At first you thought maybe your friend was angry, but their words were blunt. “It was Lord Diurniel, my lords. I was awake a little before the scholiast I think, but he was there. Me and the scholiast both saw him,”

You nodded, directing your gazes back at your masters. Mephiston’s expression was unreadable, but Incariel’s hands gripped the redstone table with a force fit to crack its surface. Rhacelus, frustrated by the pause, signaled for you to continue. 

“Y-Yes, I did.” You swallowed. “He was…there. Physically. He tried to speak to us, but Patience tossed a used pot and it struck him. Neither of us thought he was real up until that point. I grabbed Patience and ran out the door.”

Patience signaled they had more to add. “There was…more to him. He kept trying to warn me about the chief librarian, but I could never understand why. There were…other apparitions with him too.” By then the raw terror had returned to the chapel thrall’s eyes but their words could not be stopped, flowing with the fever of the haunted finally able to speak. “I couldn’t say for certain what they were except for butchered corpses standing behind Diurniel, but I knew they were my parents. They never spoke they just…looked at me.”

Even your masters seemed more then a little stunned, maintaining silence until Antros looked up from his pad of paper and auto-quill. “So you both fled and then what?”

You continued, giving Patience a rest. “We hid around the altar because Diurniel came after us. I…Patience did not see this, but I did. There was another Astartes in bone white armor directly in front of us when I looked up again, but he stepped around the altar to meet Diurniel. Presumably. After that I grabbed Patience and we locked ourselves in the toilet box. N-Not much else happened after that then we…either passed out or fell asleep. We didn’t know all that time passed before we were found.”

Antros muttered, pen scratching wildly. Mephiston’s eyes, when you dared to look up, were harsh and bright red. Twin points of ruby set in a face as bone white as the armor of the mysterious warrior. “Describe what Diurniel looked like.” 

Patience spoke. “Rent open through the middle, cold blue mist, organs and old blood spilling out of the wound. Headless.”

“I can confirm that.”

Vigilance, without asking for permission to speak or being prompted, grunted and elbowed her way to the front of the table, standing between you and Patience. “This wasn’t the first time he’d been seen either. Patience told me they had dreamed of him the night the ship left Baal, and they’d only been getting worse since that warp storm. I’ve never seen him directly but I could hear him walking around inside of the cell and speaking. I would smell the blood, too.”

Damos gave her a steely glare that she nakedly returned, knowing she might be struck for it later. “And neither of you thought to report it at all?”

“After the rift, everyone was seeing things. I don’t dream. I have neural implants that prevent me from doing that so my thoughts can’t be traced while I sleep, but damn it I’ve been dreaming. Can you blame us? Collective visions are hardly uncommon anymore.”

Rhacelus was ready to dispute that, but soon closed his mouth, eyes flickering. Apparently whatever he saw in Vigilance’s mind either placated him, or bred more questions. 

Finally, Incariel spoke. He breathed in slowly, the sound a scratch of slow static. “Their stories all match the evidence found in the chapel the day after they went missing. There were no signs of a struggle, but the floor was covered in old blood and bone dust. Attempts to clean the blood away or sample it were useless and the bone dust was so old and mingled, any dating attempts or DNA tracing could not be extracted. Diurniel’s helm was also missing from the altar.”

So that’s what the sound was…the scrape of ceramite as it was being lifted from the altar. The hiss of pressure as the helm was returned to its owner. 

Rhacelus worked his jaw, irritation clearly showing in his cobalt gaze. “And the servitors saw none of it?”

“No, my lord. All were deactivated. Not even the proximity alarms were triggered and any backup systems for the surveillance arrays failed to compensate. Even those alarms keyed to trigger when a failed activation presents itself also failed to go off.”

“What did he say, scholiast?” Mephiston finally spoke after a long silence, his eyes unchanged, bloody orbs. 

“M-My lord?”

“What did Diurniel say to you?” 

“He…he told me to be not afraid. Then he looked at Patience and warmed them about you. That you were death. The end.” You sucked in a shaking breath, barely keeping a sense of panic from flooding your body. “After Patience lashed out at him, he addressed us both and asked why we thought he wasn’t real, I…” You shivered. “That’s when we ran.” 

Vigilance gripped yours and Patience’s shoulders, showing solidarity if not an outright willingness to protect you. “Patience has been saying he says the same thing every other night he’s appeared. Always a warning about lord Mephiston. We never took it seriously.”

If your lord was shaken by the confession he did not show it physically, but as you looked at him the color in his eyes began to slowly drip down his cheeks. No one else saw this save for Rhacelus, who breathed a few words and touched the chief librarian on the arm. The color vanished and you realized that Mephiston was quietly…enraged. 

“Dismissed.” He spoke to the entire Quorum Empyrric at once, stunning any further questions into silence. “We will discuss this tomorrow.”

Damos cursed softly, beginning to protest, but Bellerion touched his elbow just as Rhacelus had with his own master. The senior sanguinary priest’s ire boiled down, stepping around the table to grab for Vigilance before she could bolt. 

Patience, moaning in contained terror, went to Incariel’s side before you could stop them. Rhacelus watched as lord Mephiston stood and immediately began to leave, a shiver of air in his wake. You dared not follow, nor did he. Antros, him and yourself were the last to exit. The codicier seemed ready to speak but Rhacelus warned him off with a snarl and a wave. 

When all but you and the epistolary were gone, he grunted and gently lead you off to the side. 

“W-What’s going to happen, my lord?”

He took an unusually long time to reply. “I am…not sure, scholiast. And I do not say that lightly. What you just told us took us all off guard.” 

That wasn’t good. Your master rarely, if ever, was surprised. “Throne of Terra…”

Rhacelus shook his head. “Keep that to yourself. Speak none of this to anyone. Incariel and the sanguinary priests might come to ask more questions, but don’t answer them. Am I clear?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Good.” He grunted, gently shaking your shoulder. “I would not…try and approach your master unless he summons you.”

“His blindness?” You whispered. 

“His blindness.” He nodded. “I feel it too. If worse things are appearing as a result of the Rift…” He left the answer unsaid. “Return to your own cell, for now. Either I will call for you, or Lord Mephiston will. Rest assured.”

You had little reason to argue and so you obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! Rather dialogue heavy here, but it will establish some later events I promise. Both Damos and Bellerion are a friend's characters. Incariel, Patience and Vigilance are characters made for the story to center around reader. All overs are canon.


	20. Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers often only breed more questions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge delay due to work and studying schedules, but I've got this done! Please note, there are HUGE references to basically all of Mephiston's current lore, as well as hints to canon events happening in future chapters. ;) I would suggest you get a bit familiar with them.

Stumbling down winding gantries and through corridors of stone and iron, you were forced to come to terms with the fact that what you had seen took your master by surprise. Lord Rhacelus made that clear enough. More chilling was that Patience and Vigilance had been experiencing this since the ship left Baal. A fact you hadn’t been aware of either. 

Carrying yourself down below the Blood Caller’s librarius, you found yourself in the residential halls housing the cells of scribes and scholiasts such as yourself. You’d almost forgotten what it looked like. Just how much time did you end up spending with Patience and Vigilance? Your master? 

Wrenching open the door, the cold, stagnant ship air hit you with a soft rush of force, sweeping dust and mold across your robes. Nearly a week, you recalled. No servitors had come to clean your abode and so a thin layer of dust collected on your belongings. All of your long dead personal projects remained untouched. Even your journal, which contained notes relating to the translations you’d been working on since before you left Baal, sat returned at some point. Utterly ignored. It was sad. Or, rather, it emphasized just how far gone you were from your original purpose. Staggering really. 

You went from a mere scribe, to a scholiast, to the lover of the chief librarian and…now what were you? Hunted? Haunted? What was Patience? Vigilance? 

Stepping into your cell, you sat numbly upon your chilly, unused cot, muttering to yourself. Patience would be alright, you promised yourself. Lord Rhacelus had assured the Quorum Empyrric of their purity just as he had your own. Perhaps you should have bothered to demand a promise, but…that was all but impossible and all together inappropriate. Not that it quashed the urge to make that demand anyways. 

For now, your body begged for sleep, but after so many days of doing nothing but drifting in and out of lucidity you wanted nothing to do with it. Instead you ate and drank with all of the enthusiasm of a servitor. After being on an IV and a gastric tube, the food should have tasted great. It didn’t. Still, the fuller belly helped you comprehend a little better. 

While Diurniel had certainly been a bastion of a nightmare, your thoughts did not centre on him, but rather on the strangeness of the other Astartes. The one in bone white armor. Details were vague, as human memory always was in times of stress, but the fact that the meeting had ended shortly after confessing what you’d seen said more than anyone’s reactions could have. 

In an effort to preserve the memory you flung yourself from the cot and searched around your desk. A sheet of vellum of a splinter of charcoal would do. You were no artist like Vigilance, but every single scribe and scholiast on Baal knew how to illuminate a page of manuscript as well as anyone from Terra. And so you drew. No markings of any significance picked out the strange warrior to be from any chapter you knew, but the rank markings were there. Outdated. As was the mark of the armor, you realized. Per-heresy if you wanted to levy a guess. Weirder still was the halo of light that surrounded the being. It was divine. Ancient in a way that was hard to depict with just the simplicity of charcoal. 

Finishing what few details you could, you took a breath and carefully set the drawing down upon your desk. One of your masters would likely want to see it. That, and it managed to calm you down enough to steady your breathing.

Some time passed before there was a rap at the door. The bang originated from a point at least three feet above your head, and knew more from experience than anything it was an Astartes. Fighting the door open, you weren’t at all surprised to see lord Rhacelus peering down at you through the gloom of your cell. Strong, cobalt eyes fixed upon you with an internal disdain that quickly softened. You moved out of his way as he was forced to duck through the door frame. He barely fit. Had he been Primaris he would have scalped himself on the vault of your ceiling. Instead he bent down and then eventually decided to crouch in front of you. 

On his lap he placed a massive tome, iron bound tome that likely weighed more than the average tech adept. Before he opened it, he looked at you with an honest, but reluctant stare. As if hesitant to reveal what he was about to say.

“How much do you know of the chief librarian?”

“I…my lord?”

He stare remained unwavering. 

You hardly knew where to start. “I know that…his rise to his rank started at Hades Hive, many centuries ago. The books never went into detail, but his powers were significant and soon he came into his station as chief librarian. Since then he’s been the head of more than a few campaigns in the chapter’s history, including…many that aren’t public knowledge. Those I don’t know of. He spoke a little of the Quorum Empyrric and that my ancestor, scholiast Imola, was part of it.” You bit your tongue, unsure of how much you should say of more personal matters. Particularly about his human lovers and his relationship with your mother. Or the other confessions he’s made to you. 

When you didn’t continue, Rhacelus grunted and removed a gauntlet. “What I am going to show you will fill in more than few gaps, scholiast. You need to know this, because his behavior will be entirely out of context otherwise. He is…currently unable to tell you himself, I’m afraid.”

His naked thumb swiped across the needlepoint of one overgrown eye tooth, a bead of blood forming. He pressed the ruby drop into the dimpled surface of the book’s decoration, a series of wings framing a roaring, feline shape. Hidden mechanisms and locks within the tome’s massive cover shifted and clicked, releasing a seal you hadn’t even seen. 

Suddenly afraid, you gasped in a breath and spoke. “I…my lord, please forgive me, but I know of his…blindness, and the ghosts, and…”

He held up a hand, cramming his gauntlet back on. “But do you know why he is like that, scholiast? Has he truly conversed with you about his past yet?”

“I…no, we’ve…talked of mine but never his.” You admitted, shamed upon realizing your selfishness. No where in any of your encounters had you inquired about him. You always assumed he would never tell even if you did.

But Rhacelus shook off your shame and grunted again, rolling the book open. The vellum smelled ancient. At least a few centuries old, if not several, and many of the pages were faded and cracked, crinkling loudly as he flipped through them. Yet, his cobalt gaze easily read them as if the ink was still fresh. 

“I wrote this myself, to keep a record of my lord and friend, scholiast. And I will share it with you now…

“He was once a librarian of prestigious talent, even before becoming what he is today. I did not mentor him personally, but I liked him almost immediately. Back then it wasn’t enough just to be skilled, your discipline and charisma counted for much. And Callistarius had it all.” He shook his head. “And then Hades Hive happened. He had begun to show signs of the Black Rage even before then. He would…forget himself. Speak words and curses that had not been uttered since the Heresy. There was little I could do other than call his name and hope he answered. Eventually, he stopped answering

“And so I saw him shedding the blood red of the chapter for the sable of the Death Company. I thought to never see him again. That he would die a glorious death worthy of the Primarch. Except he didn’t. He fought before a mighty Ecclesorium before the assault became so fierce it collapsed the building on top of him, the orks and all of his brothers inside. For seven days and nights, Callistarius became a chrysalis of blood and rage. What emerged was no longer my friend, but a soul reborn into his body. He had shed both the Rage and Thirst and in its place came unimaginable power. So new to it was he that when I found him, days later, he was in the throes of the power so deep he had demolished nearly everything in his path. Orks, humans…none remained in the face of his rage. I nearly counted myself among it, but he came to and I knew, as soon as I looked into his eyes, that I had lost what was once Callistarius. He named himself Mephiston, and I named myself his friend despite it all.”

There was a hidden note of pain in his voice that you refused to comment on, and so you asked instead. “What…what happened then? Below the rubble?”

“We don’t know.” Rhacelus replied simply. “Not even Mephiston himself. He spends a great amount of his time in chamber of his own making called the Chemic Spheres. Revisiting that moment, being born and reborn in his memories, again and again, in an attempt to answer that very question. But answers never come. And each day he tries it becomes harder and harder for him to come back.” 

Rhacelus said this all with such a casual affect, but the words locked into your heart, as painful as an infarction. You could hardly believe that the man in front of you was so used to journeying into the dark with lord Mephiston that he could describe your master’s madness with such easy clarity. 

“I…I had no idea…”

The old librarian was quiet for a moment, perhaps realizing that maybe you weren’t ready to hear this after all. He broke his gaze, lifting a gauntlet to snap the tome shut but your hand lashed out. Gripped around an armored wrist as thick as a bolter shell. 

“I need to hear this.” You snarled with sudden, shocking convention. Oh, you were terrified, probably more so than when you fled from lord Diurniel, but the determination refused to let you look away. “I’m tired of being in the dark and if my master can’t tell me, then you need to. Is that not why you came here?”

For a long moment Rhacelus seemed more than a little stunned. Offended even. His head did not move, but his cobalt glow was directed down at your tiny little wrist. He could break it as easily as you could snap an old lead. Perhaps he was considering doing that just now. But he waited until you shuddered and moved your hand away. 

“P-Please, my lord…t-tell me as much as you need to.”

Unconvinced, but apparently unwilling to continue dissuading you, the epistolary continued. “He was…stable for a long while. As he rose through the ranks, his power truly germinated inside of him. Back then he was utterly convinced that this was a blessing from Sanguinius. And it truly is, scholiast. You have to understand that it is, for this is a strength that has sundered daemons. However…

“However…” He said so softly it was if he was fit to cry. “So many others did not think so. Astorath, at first, was extremely critical. They have spoken of course, but the Redeemer of the Lost has seen so much death at the hands of our twined Curses that the idea of Mephiston somehow surviving both seemed…blasphemous.” Rhacelus said this last word as if speaking it aloud would invite something unholy. He glared at the pages with poisonous intent before his brow eased. “It is…an understandable accusation, but one that was echoed by others even if the Redeemer eventually considered him sanguine. Former friends of Callistarius saw him return and mistook him for what he had been. Most could not cope. Mm, sanguinary priest Albinus is perhaps the only one besides myself who has accepted Callistarius’s fate. He was, after all, the one who attended him when he fell. To the Black Rage and then the Thirst.”

You nodded, unspeaking at first. Then you confessed. “I know of him. I hear rumors he’s to be the next sanguinary high priest.” 

Rhacelus’s eyes glittered for a moment. “Deservingly so.” Then his hand waved, dismissing the topic at once. “The point of this, scholiast, is that lord Mephiston has very few friends and many, many doubters among our ranks. Even more so in our cousin chapters. I would argue that these are baseless accusations, and indeed most are!” He huffed. “But…these are not arguments Mephiston considers to be my business.” He shook his head, then shook a finger at you. “But know this. Lord Commander Dante himself is among Mephiston’s supporters. I can promise you this. More than likely you will meet him yourself one day.”

Your face flushed at the idea, but before you could voice it as such, Rhacelus continued. He told you far, far more than you could ever imagine. Taking you through the machinations of daemons…his involvement in a since erased event called the Cybele Incident…Divinatus Prime and true start of his madness. The minions he’d since hunted and slaughtered across the stars. Of Baal’s destruction just bare years before you were born. Rhacelus made mention of the Angel’s Bane. A name you knew if he spoke aloud in true you would have likely vomited. 

Everything. He told you everything save for what would plunge you into ensured insanity. He seemed to prefer skipping the details. A fact you did not mind, for time seemed short and knowing too much could be dangerous in such an era as this. That and your mind just…was not ready. You had to hear this, but your mental state suffered for it. All brought upon by yourself. This is what you insisted on. 

Finally after hours of conversation Rhacelus carefully slapped the book shut and looked at you. You’re a mess. Sweating and red eyed and scared, but the determination was still there. As well as the gratitude. 

“Th-Thank you, my lord…you did not have to tell me this.”

“Yes I did.” He said simply, making to stand. “If you love him, you have to know and be prepared. I can’t speak at all of romance, even if me and Vigilance…it’s never going to be easy. Not with him. It never was with any of his other lovers either. You are going to be hurt, scholiast. Mentally, physically…all of it. Either by him, or someone or something else. Are you ready for that?”

“I…” You held back a sob. “No. Of course I’m not, but I love him truly and he loves me, I think. If we survive, it will be worth it.”

“And if you don’t survive? If he doesn’t?”

“I will just have to deal with it. As I have to learn to deal with everything else.”

Rhacelus paused for a moment then nodded in approval. “You will not be alone. I will be here.”

“…and Antros?”

“Antros…do not speak of this to Antros. Not yet, he…” Rhacelus shook his head. “Do not think of it.”

The dismissal twisted in your thoughts before forcing yourself to let it go. That would be for another day. Another time. “Yes, my lord.”

Another approving gesture. “Good. Remember what I told you. Don’t speak of this to anyone but me and Mephiston. And…scholiast, may the Emperor watch you. The path only gets darker and steeper from here.”

You could only agree, watching with gradually building despair as he left your cell…

——————————————————————————————————————————

Mephiston burst into the ritual chambers nestled in the very hull of the Blood Caller with a fury just short of a howl. A thick, charnel stink greeting him, amplified by his rage. What he did not give voice to, the ghosts did. He roared, swatting at them with bare fists and pure, incandescent rage. 

“Diurniel!!” His exhortation nearly birthed fire, the deck growing hot under his boots, but the ghosts had not abated. They grew worse. A cold, ashen tornado. A twisting amalgamation of countless bodies. 

Only one stood still, planted in the middle of the chamber as if he’d been waiting. Duirniel witnessed Mephiston’s fury and did not move. As the Lord of Death stalked closer, a hand was flung out and, so summoned, Vitarus sliced through the dark and slapped into his open palm. The blade, birthed from his very being, ignited and made to deepen the wound the tyranids had gifted the dead chaplain. 

Unmoving until the very last moment, Duirniel side stepped the blow, rolling with the motion and smashing a staff of pure shadow into the back of Mephiston’s psychic hood. Stunned more by the discovery that the chaplain could actually hurt him than the attack itself, Mephiston barked and reversed his swing. Vitarus cut only air, the chandelier of blood and cadavers high above trembling in the backwash of his anger. 

Diurniel was not there, nor anywhere else he looked. 

“Show yourself!” Mephiston ordered, and the hurricane of tormented souls at his back surged and writhed. But Diuniel was not among them. Not until he spun about, eyes ablaze with flame.

“You are quickly proving Reclusiarch Quirinus right.” Rumbled the specter, exactly where he had been before Mephiston struck. 

Vitarus nearly went clattering from the chief librarian’s hands. “What are you?” He demanded, swiftly losing his fury. 

“Not one of your personal ghosts, if that is what you are inquiring.” Diurniel finally moved, striding with slow purpose towards one of the pained souls, plucking it from the air like fruit. It went limp in his grip, gaining enough sentience to realize it was dead. Screaming with the realization of it.

This was the first time the chief librarian was able to take a longer look at the dead chaplain. No longer was this walking cadaver leaking organs and blood. The missing helm from the chapel altar was found, returned it its owner. The cold blue mist still spilled from the rent in his armor, but he was as hollow now as an abandoned nave. 

Diruniel fixed him with a look, dropping the moaning ghost. “Do you even realize why I’m here, lord Mephiston?”

“Why are any of these wretches here?” The chief librarian retorted, jerking Vitarus at the crowd of souls. 

Instead, the chaplain shook his head. “Oh, lord Mephiston, no. Perhaps if you looked passed your blindness you might see.”

Holding up a battle-scarred gauntlet, Diurniel summoned shapes from the threads of skin above, a red rain coloring the floor. They twitched and danced, revealing scenes in the carmine shadows. Monstrous beings crowded into a narrow passageway, clawing and slashing at a single figure stood in the corridor, holding them off. There was such a press of bodies that the visage grew dark. Until it wasn’t. The clawed shapes moved on, clambering over the slaughtered figure and into the doorways beyond. Something at his feet screamed in pain and terror. Mephiston did not need to look down to know the two other ghosts had appeared at Diruniel’s feet. As they always eventually did, bound to him as surely as he himself was to Rhacelus or lord Dante.

He frowned. “I know how you and Patience’s parents died. This isn’t new information.”

Annoyed, Mephiston scattered the grotesque puppet show with a gesture. “What are you playing at, phantom?”

To his resentment Diurniel only looked disappointed. “You claim to be the Lord of Death, but you haven’t learned the rules of it, haven’t you? No, I don’t think you have. I am bound to this ship, chief librarian. My death was for nought. The people I had been there to protect are dead. The only one left is the one I named myself.”

Mephiston’s eyes cleared, irises bright with realization. “Patience.” The memories he gleaned from the scholiast rushed to to fore. 

He nodded. “And you of all people should understand the significance of names.” 

“So this whole thing is for a single thrall?”

There was a flash of ghost light behind the lenses of the reclaimed helm. “And you would not do the same for the scholiast? Have you truly fallen that far?”

“I would shatter mountains if it meant to see them safe.” Mephiston replied, staring at the apparition with imperious certainty. “But what I do is for the Imperium. Quirinus could only see what I had been, not what I am. He could not accept that. And you are just as much of a fool as he was if you refuse to see I that wield my sword for the sake of Mankind.” 

Diurniel suddenly stamped forward, his voice becoming a gurgling roar, the mist staining red. “Do not dare to speak of him with such disrespect! Do you have any idea what he was to me?”

The accusation did not effect Mephiston, but the question did. He snarled, parrying a furious blow from a weapon that wasn’t even there, a lick of shadow skittering across his left pauldron. Throwing his attacker to the side with its momentum. 

“He was my mentor! My friend! He was to me as Rhacelus is to you! And his fall was your fault!” Roared Diruniel, righting himself and preparing to strike again. 

“Mine?” Mephiston wanted to laugh, but disgust and resentment sealed his jaws together, gritting his fangs. “You think I took any pleasure in seeing him fall?”

Outrage birthed action and he raised Vitarus once again, slicing down into sable ceramite as Diruniel stormed into range. The already damaged armor came away as cleanly as if the sword had cloven through wood. There was no reaction. Only a spill of old blood the color of rust. The same blood that Mephiston saw covering the floor of the grand chapel. He could smell it over the slightly fresher, charnel reek of the place.

Diruniel seemed to hardly notice, his rage smacking against the chief librarian’s flank with another hammer blow. “Why did it have to be you that found him?”

“It was by design!” Mephiston growled, defensively slamming his elbow into the side of the reclaimed helm as the chaplain swung down at him again. The chief librarian was struggling to stay inside his guard and continue the conversation. Between Diurniel’s rage and the insistent howling of the phantoms, his mind was clogged with fury and sorrow, soaking into blindness like blood flooding through a battle dressing. “The daemon, Doombreed, used my old friend and nearly a full company as bait!”

“To get to you!” Diurniel shocked him with the knowledge. Another swing saw the chief librarian staggering towards the wall of ghosts, briefly enveloped by them. He shook them off and stood but the chaplain powered towards him, rocketing into his armored body with the force of a charging Rhino. The impact took the air from his lungs and ground him against the blood slick bulkhead behind them. 

“You dare to think I didn’t care?” Mephiston spat even as he crossed Vitaris across his torso at the last possible second, blocking the grinding pressure of Diurniel’s entire weight from caving in his breastplate. “Quirius was my friend! I am no longer Callistarius but I have his memories. We could have continued to be friends had he not been so blinded as I am right now.” 

Losing mental as much as physical strength, Mephiston let Diruniel press into him. It was painful, but less so than the stinging scrape of regret and the screaming of ghosts. “Perhaps I should have tried harder. If you knew what happened, then you have to see just how little control I possessed over the situation.. Doombreed had planned this for millennia. The Eclipse of Hope, Pavellon…all of it. If I could have, I would have ripped our friend from the grip of the Rage myself. But I can’t…I couldn’t.”

Perhaps Diurniel was about to speak his part, but then Mephiston noticed the sudden, pervasive silence. Not one of the ghosts wailed or crowded the battling figures anymore. Even the chaplain froze, the red mist bleeding from his rent armor slid back into icy, glacial blue. The pressure eased and Mephiston threw himself out of Diurneil’s grip, prepared to strike, but he found himself looking at…someone else. 

It was the white armored Astartes the scholiast described. Stood in the centre of the chamber, luminous with the color of old gilt and polished bone. Shadows retreated from the warrior’s boots as if they were startled snakes. None of the phantoms dared even be around him, forming a silent sphere of clarity that quickly reached Mephiston and Diurniel. 

The warrior said nothing and Mephiston could glean little else. The mark of armor was unbelievable ancient. Per-Heresy era easily, but completely devoid of all but simple rank markings appropriate for the time. 

As Diurniel broke away Mephiston could immediately tell what had happened. At first he expected his combatant to be hostile to the new comer, but it was the exact opposite. There was…an air of august servitude that permeated the chaplain now, confusing the Lord of Death even more as the white Astartes slowly strode forwards. Describing an arch around the chamber as if warding it. And indeed that seemed to be the case. Phantoms, blood and darkness fled. Even the lumes high above were cleared from the film of flesh and fluids. Questions and awed frustration swelled in the chief librarian’s head, unable to give voice to them even as Diurniel backed away at last, replaced by the imperious glow of the other. 

A single bone colored gauntlet rested on Mephiston’s pauldron and the weight of prophecy crushed his skull. It was so immediate it choked him, sending his internal vision darting into the future with agonizing clarity. Then it was gone, and so too, were Diurnel and the warrior. It took just a second. The ghosts did not return, effectively banished from his presence at least temporarily. He grasped for answers he knew he would not be getting anytime soon. All he was left were the visions, superimposed upon his consciousness with the force of an industrial printer. The blindness still smeared his second sight, but…he could see enough. 

Dominated by the impression of a vast, black angel locked in eternal struggle with the Sanguinor…and of his impending ascension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do more with Rhacelus's conversation with the reader, but doing so would have been exhausting to read and write. I wanted to also drag out the references a bit more instead of just...lumping them all together here, but this works I think! As usual, please leave a comment with your thoughts! <3


	21. Shadow Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes assumptions are as rotten as blatant lies...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be...very, very different. More lighthearted in the face of all the calamity of the last few chapters. But, considering we're just a chapter or two away from actual canon events, I had to match the mood. 
> 
> Thus, we've got a warning for toxicity in friendships, blame throwing and general all around no good jumping to conclusions. Also, warning for oral sex based smut. ;)
> 
> If you wanna get in contact with me or just follow me for updates, please check out my Twitter! https://twitter.com/StormBlueStudi1

It was strange how cramped your cell felt now that it was just you. Perhaps it was the anxiety of being alone that made the awkward silence so uncomfortable. Back on Baal you would have done anything to be left to your own devices. Now, it felt like being abandoned. You didn’t know what to do except stare mindlessly at the opposite wall. Not wanting to lie down or stand up, you sat there on your cot, trying to process everything lord Rhacelus told you. It was a lot to unpack and in the effort you found yourself craving your master…your lover’s touch. You wanted to converse about it but knew, deep down, lord Mephiston would only tell you exactly what Rhacelus did. His experiences were his own and it was made clear that not even the chief librarian knew himself completely. That alone was terrifying enough. The scare from lord Diurniel was worse though. That, you had little clue how to deal with either. 

When there was another knock at the door you almost sobbed. With relief or pent up tension, you had no idea which. Wheezing with effort, you flew from the cot to the door hatch and threw it open. Half expecting to welcome lord Mephiston, Vidiens or even Patience. 

It was Vigilance. 

“I…hello?” You sucked in a breath. “Did something happen?”

Her long arms shot into the opening, holding you close without warning. Struggling briefly, you fought to kick the rest of the door open so the two of you would not end up slamming it shut on one another. The scuffle went on for a full minute before the woman physically carried you to the cot, plopping you down beside her. 

“Fuck.” The woman cursed softly. “I was really worried.”

You wanted this hug to be from lord Mephiston, or Patience, but…Throne you did not argue. Vigilance hugged you the way your dead mother should have hugged you. Tightly and warmly. You hiccuped through a sudden, shuddering whimper and held her back. Vigilance felt heavy from her augments. You did not care. “I think I’m all right. I’m not sure.”

“You don’t have to be all right. Throne damn it, you’re allowed to be really fucked up. I would be. In your position.”

Despite yourself, there was a breathless, tired laugh. “I’m just…confused. I was…I was told a lot today.”

Finally you had the urge to wiggle free from her grip. Turning away from her clutching hands, you found a serious, almost harsh expression on Vigilance’s face. It was dark in your cell, but it hardly obscured the crease in her brow, or the sharp clarity in her eyes. 

“How much were you told?”

“W-What?”

When there was no answer for several seconds, you swallowed. “I can’t say, I…I’m not allowed to. I was very explicitly told that.”

Vigilance sat back. The expression did not leave, but the woman’s voice was softer. Worried. “Can you come with me? I’ll explain when we get there.” 

“I don’t want to. I…try to explain it to me now so I’m not given any more of a surprise, please?” 

The woman seemed like she wanted to do away with the pleasantries and physically drag you there. In fact she almost did. You could feel her augmented hands tighten around your shoulders. Just slightly. You weren’t afraid of her hurting you. Not by a long shot, but you didn’t want to be removed from your cell just yet. Later, maybe. 

After several, long seconds…Vigilance sighed and let go, arms falling loose. “You remember when lord Mephiston called me away that night with you and Patience? Before this whole…situation with the dead chaplain got out of hand?”

You nodded.

“Well, he has…a project. He was very, very odd about it. Now, scholiast, keep in mind that I’ve been around Astartes for too long to be afraid of them, but the way lord Mephiston acted when I spoke to him…I was scared.”

“But he-“

Vigilance snarled into the hand she clapped over your mouth. “Let me finish. Please. Not unless you want me to drag you out of here and show you instead.”

A gasp as you jerked her hand away. “S-Show me? What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean, scholiast?” 

Your own hand found its way back to your mouth, strangling your words. Not that you had much to say in the first place. They lodged at the back of your throat like dust from an over-dry protein bar. It took a lot of effort to jog them free. “I don’t like what this all implies, Vig. I don’t.”

“I don’t like it either, but I like keeping you in the dark even less.” The woman sighed. 

That was what got your full attention. “Is that what you’re doing then? Keeping me out of the dark?”

Vigilance glared. “What else would I be doing?”

You shook your head. At this point talking further would turn into a convoluted mess. “Just show me then.”

So she did. The walk to Mephiston’s personal chambers was marked by silence and the relative darkness of the ship’s night cycle. You both had to stay quiet and take the long route. Mainly to avoid watchmen or your wondering masters. Neither of you ran into any people and Patience was nowhere to be seen. When asked, Vigilance didn’t know where they were either. 

Now that you were able to see her a little better the restorationist looked…tired. Nervous. In a way that reminded you a little too much of your long dead mother. She looked nothing like that woman physically, but the signs of stress and paranoia translated across two very different faces in almost the exact same way. The effect was jarring, to say the least. It didn’t allow for good thoughts even as you two stepped over the liminal threshold after no small amount of searching. 

Sadly, your master was not present but then you half expected that. The light also never changed. It was the same hue of blood orange. Shadowy and as dim as Mephiston needed it to be at any given moment. However, as Vigilance guided you through the spinal bookcases and towering scrying constructs, you discovered she had made herself a little pool of light among the sea of dark crimson.

“Did your master ever mention working on a project together?”

“He did, actually.” You sucked in a breath at the recall. “Why are you so nervous about showing me then?”

Vigilance did not answer, instead grunting and deftly stepping over three separate piles of vellum and leather to get to the central desk. It was barely useable by humans even at her taller than base-average hight. A shocking amount of data slates and palm readers were clamped to its ornate wooden surfaces. All of them were back-lit and chalk full of informational diagrams punctuated by screeds of holy scripture. All of them were at least moderately expensive. The greatest of which was a massive, solid crystal projector tablet half your size and weight locked into a golden frame. All stamped with black enamel crosses, clenched fists and, to a lesser degree, lightning. It looked like it cost enough Imperial credits to purchase a ship. And that did not include the collective costs of all the other slates, specialized clamp lamps and styluses also present. Not to mention what you figured were hardback personal references directly from Terran archives. 

You said nothing as Vigilance stepped aside and let you explore her hard work. And what hard work it was. It bred a sense of jealousy in you that had only just been kindled. Back when your master first called her to the project instead you. It was immediately apparent why he made that choice. Your skill in illumination paled to what she was capable of in just a week or so. 

Displayed on the golden tablet’s hard-light surface was an incredible complexity of cartographic marks and lines, perfect vectors and hundreds of minute, stylized runes and characters dancing across an always invisible background on trails of cyan light. As your fingers carefully pinched the outer surface and rotated the diagrams hovering above the crystalline surface, it only revealed more heart-stopping detail. Vigilance was no astronomer, but Throne of Terra, she was able to fool you easily enough. 

Slowly, you pulled your hand away and the star chart snapped back into its original orientation. Glowing hot red where information was otherwise incomplete or contradictory. 

“W-Why do you need my help with this? It looks like you’re already almost done.” You muttered, bitter. 

“Vidiens is a poor translator.” She explained with an exasperated noise. “And whiny. I…tried to learn a bit of Baalite on the way here, but…”

For a moment you waited for her to finish. When she didn’t you waved it off and moved for a quill and paper. “I guess we better get started then?”

The restorationist visibly relaxed, smiling. “Yes, please.”

Hours ticked by, feeling as if you spent more time translating this chart than you had rewriting Mephiston’s original tome. You knew how to read the scripture, much of which was likely written by the hands of a space marine, but these were purely astrological terms not even you had ever had to deal with. It took a lot of effort and you were starting to see why Vigilance had gotten frustrated. Vidiens was a servitor. Not a free thinking being able to make a judgement call on an exact translation of a barely used term thousands of years out of date. Let alone into something that actually had meaning in high gothic. Vigilance was trying to put it all into low gothic, a relatively blunt language by comparison. 

Vigilance made an odd statement of it. Something about herding cats. You knew what a cat was, vaguely, but like most of the references and materials you were trying to translate, it was largely lost to the ages. Less and less of the cartography remained red, however. Vigilance operated with a speed and grace that seemed impossible. Yet the more she worked, the less…comfortable she became. 

You were not especially skilled in reading people, yet Vigilance was gratefully a very obvious person. More than once you caught her looking at you, deep in thought or on the verge of wanting to ask you something. Eventually though…she no longer needed to. 

With a tome you’d plucked from the depths of your master’s shelves, your fingers manipulated the touch sensitive projections. Orbs of cyan light that exploded into detail the closer your fingers came to the designs. Then you spread your hands, slowly, allowing the full effort of your combined works to come into focus for the first time since you arrived. 

You nearly vomited. 

The serpent from the salver stared at you with that single, unblinking eye in heavy profile. Except where details had been missing from it on the brass plate, this was a completed frame. All blue and perfectly dividing the galaxy between sacred Baal and sacred Terra. The memory of it, and all of the planets and vectors it somehow invoked, was too much. 

Dropping the tome and reeled away, you barely kept yourself from lashing out. Not at the cartography, but at Vigilance. She dived and tried to grab for you, concern writ across her face. You failed to stop yourself from slapping her away. It was like slapping the tire of a ground car. 

“What is this!?” You screamed, violently jabbing at the hard-light serpent. “What did you do? That, that…thing is not in any of the references!” 

The restorationist looked panicked, backed up against the table. Hands clutching so hard they were starting to dent the ironwood. “It was on the map your master ordered me to restore!”

“…what?”

Shaking, but only from the torso, Vigilance stared at your warily. Not moving. Not blinking. “Th-The map, I…that’s what I was trying to tell you about, scholiast. It’s what…what lord Rhacelus was talking to me about, bef-“

“Before you mated with him?” You scowled. Hard.

Before you had any chance to react, the women darted forward, yanking you off the rug strewn floor by the collar of your robes. It did not hurt, but the relative strength scared you more than anything. “That was for one night, scholiast! One night! We were…we were so very drunk.”

She dropped you, spine going weak. Dragging her fingers across her suddenly sallow face, the woman sank to the floor with you. “L-Listen, something’s going on. Your master…he told me not to show you that map. I knew something was wrong the moment he said that. You have to trust me!”

“Our master!” You snapped, digging your nails into the rug at your feet. “Lord Mephiston! He has a name and I’ve noticed you’ve not said it once since it we got here!” 

“I don’t know how to say this and have it make any sense, but maybe D-Diruniel was right? Maybe there was a reason he was trying to warn Patience about him? What about the map? And how do you know about that…that fucking snake?”

“Th-That’s not for you to know!” 

“Oh, really then? But you’re screaming at me because what I’m apparently not supposed to know about is on a map your master is having me finish? One that he told me not to tell you about? He’s hiding something, scholiast!”

Curling up around yourself like a cornered canine, you hissed. “He’s your master too! How dare you! I love him, and he loves me too!”

“…you mean you…?”

“Yes! I confess! It was none of your business. None of anyone’s business, but I love and trust him. I’ve known him, Vigilance, like you knew Rhacelus. Except we weren’t drunk! You had one scary conversation with him and now you call him a heretic!?” 

“I never said he was! Just…throne!” She stood up and for a moment you believed she might strike you, but the woman was stomping away. In the worst invasion of lord Mephiston’s privacy you would ever witness, Vigilance moved to one of his personal podiums. Effortlessly clawing her way up the towering construct to unlocked something from its stand with what looked to be pure finger strength. It was obvious no one else was supposed to have access to the contents. About to wail at her for her blasphemy, Vigilance immediately halted you by shoving the entirely of it in your arms and face. 

“See! See!! It’s right there, you blind arse! It’s right there!” 

There was no lie. You would have refused to look at the map directly but the restorationist was literally forcing you. There it was. The serpent. Crumpling in her hands along with the dangerously mishandled linen map it was eating its way across. Fighting back the nearly inescapable urge to destroy both her and the map, you stumbled backwards, tripping over a fold in the rug behind you. 

Crestfallen, Vigilance shakily returned the irreparably wrinkled cartography to the podium, not bothering to lock it. “I’m sick of these shadow games, scholiast. I left Terra thinking I could do some honest, God Emperor given work. I was wrong. I left one viper’s nest for another.” 

Her words fell on no ears. The moment she turned away, you clambered to your feet and fled with the single intent to find Mephiston. You refused to linger in Vigilance’s presence. It was no longer safe. Vigilance only noticed after she finished speaking, staring at the dent in the carpet where you’d been huddling after your fall. Blank faced and moving almost on autopilot, the women knew what she had to do. It would pain her to delete a week’s worth of work, but this was the only option. 

“I should have listened to Rhacelus. I shouldn’t have told the scholiast anything. Shouldn’t have showed them anything. They have no idea what they’ve gotten into. What I’ve gotten into.”

Her fingers moved swiftly. It required a blood key to erase everything, but a bit of vitae was worth keeping…whatever this horror was hidden away for good…

Vigilance cringed, preparing to feel the burn of the ident needle, but a gauntlet of dark sapphire snagged her wrist. It was almost identical to Rhacelus’s, but when she whirled about, the woman saw not the epistolary, but a scarred yet amiable face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Whispered Antros. 

———————

Mephiston was not where you expected him to be. After escaping from the liminal space of his librarium your feet carried you down the many spiraling gantries of the Blood Caller’s greater librarius. You knew where to go only because your master had shown you the way down, but he was not to be seen. You found him only after you panicked and left through an unused maintenance corridor, intent on getting back into the main sections of the ship. Technically speaking you were not supposed to be there in the first place. 

So it made even less sense for your master to be there too, so close to the aft section of the cargo hold. If he was at all surprised to see you, he did not show it. In fact, when you cried out and latched onto him he didn’t seem to notice at first.

“My lord…?”

An odd rheumy glow clung to his crimson eyes, lasting for only a second. “Scholiast?”

“I…oh, Throne! Vigilance knows!” You pulled at his robes, crying openly. “She knows about the salver, she…”

Then you noticed what was covering his robes. The stink of dried blood and the grit of fine powder, like the dust that plagued the air of the Reclusium. That he was, indeed, fully armored and grasping the blade you knew only as Vitarus. 

“Master?”

Physically pulling you from the floor, he sprinted out of the corridor so swiftly you became briefly motion sick. His urgency startled you, as did his apparent silence. Mephiston said nothing but then the distance that had taken you nearly thirty minutes to traverse lasted only a few. Even if you had the breath to ask questions, any answers would have been cut short as he simply slipped into being within his chambers in mere moments. By then all of his weapons were sheathed, but a red aura still cling to him like a grave shroud. It vanished only when he stopped and left you free.

Gently released from his arms, you tottered along desperately from shelf to shelf. Vigilance was gone. Furiously marching around the liminal space did you no good. She must have left. “Damn it, she’s gone. Master, I’m so sorry I should have brought her to you.”

Mephiston, hunched over Vigilance’s gold framed projector—the same one with the sickening image of the serpent, looked…pleased. There was a strange, almost giddy glint in his eyes. Like freshly lit candle flames. “It is finished.”

Confused, you peered around him towards the work you’d just declared heretical. There was no red to be seen. Every single detail, direction, planet, star and vector was in its place. Completed. Perfect. Too, whatever small mistakes marked for correcting had been…corrected. In an insanely short amount of time, you realized. 

But the excited expression upon your master’s face was heartbreakingly sincere. “I can finally find the source of this madness, scholiast. I finally have the keys to close the Rift.”

Forcing a smile that quickly became honest, you replied. “Y-Yes. You can. You can end all of this. All of it.”

He embraced you and it was the one thing you needed most of out today. Like Vigilance’s, it was tight and warm, but his was so very intimate and hungry. You felt needed and attractive when you were held like this. No one else had ever done that for you, and so the idea of Vigilance’s disappearance in the face of accusation quickly become unimportant. 

Now, your master was the only thing that mattered. This time you were the one that initiated the kiss. Nervous and exploring at first, he none the less eagerly returned it. The small, sharp prick of his fangs only served to excite you. Heat translated deep into your loins, awakening a carnal want you felt only for him. He could tell too, because his gloved hands were sliding down under the hem of your robes. Threatening to pull them away. 

“Do you want me?” He whispered into your ear. “All of me?”

Buried against his pauldron, you considered it. He could take you right here and you weren’t sure if would be able to care about the map, about Vigilance, or anyone else once he did. You wanted that. You so very much wanted to not care right now. The confirmation almost left your lips, but a peaceful sense of resignation settled in. You had to care regardless. Eventually. For now? For now he was yours. Vigilance had nothing to do what what was going to happen next. 

“N-Not yet. I want to be the one to ask, if…you can agree to that.” 

“Of course I can. I love you.” He breathed, gingerly nipping your neck. There was a pinch and then a sting of warmth as he tasted your vitae. You moaned, almost gainsaying your own decision. 

“C-Can I have your mouth on me though?” 

He did not verbally reply, but Mephiston’s lips left your neck none the less. There was a swish of fabric and your robes found themselves around your ankles. He was so direct today. No trailing licks or kisses, just a bowed white-blonde head nudging between your legs. There was his tongue and then the rest of his mouth consuming you whole. Throne, it took so much effort not to scream for him or fall to your knees. Lapping and sucking, he bore you to the floor on your back and spread your legs apart. Thick, wet heat and the smell of your musk proved just how much you wanted this. Needed this. 

When his tongue finally poked into you, that was it. You came apart and gurgled his name from a mouth choked with passion. Your fluids flowed against his lips and did not stop until he was done. Oh, sweet mercy you’d forgotten all about Vigilance. Any effort you made in trying was swallowed by postcoital exhaustion. 

“Mm. Give.” You whimpered, reaching your hands towards his groin plate. With a deep rumble, he unlatched his belt and armor platting. It took time and the seals had grown tight around his erection. He was only half hard, but the look of relief was real. Mephiston groaned, sliding to the floor and allowing you to climb across the ribbed ceramite panels to get to his cock. 

This was only the second time you ever reciprocated and so there was still much for you to learn. But you had, indeed, learned since the first. You were receptive and knew what he liked. Grinning and naked, your hands gently kneaded his balls, chin nuzzled up under his cock as it rose and rose. Gradually, it reached a peak you could wrap your lips around. As you did so, you stole the most arousing sight of him. Eyes dark, fangs bared and hair slick with the beginnings of sweat. You would die to have that moment last forever. Once again, you almost said yes. To be lost in the ecstasy of being taken by him would have solved every problem and mended every hurt in your little universe. 

It would be only temporary. When climax came and he was finished mating you, the problems and the hurt would be back. So, you moaned and dived down onto his cock instead, taking him into your mouth. Letting it choke you. Mephiston snarled your name and twitched, the hot hum of his power armor straining as he fought to keep still. Even so, as you slowly pulled your head back, you could feel his cock dance where his body could not. You continued, barely restraining yourself as you tasted the sweet salt of his pre-cum slicking the inside your cheeks. Mephiston was so very close already. It had been a while for the both of you. Entirely abstaining from even self pleasure in light of everything that was happening. Has happened. 

But you knew what to do. Felt it in your gut. Dip a hand under him, gently press into his balls and take him down your throat until you could not stand it. He snarled only once and his seed flowed into your mouth as a white river. Tasting sweet and salt, the sheer amount of it was both startling and so arousing it made you dizzy. But you remained stiff, raking your tongue under his cock until he finished.

“Mine.” He hissed, pulling you away from his spent cock. Pressing you to his armored chest. “Only mine.” 

His. Only his. It felt so good. Vigilance might have talent far beyond yours, but she did not love. Not like you loved Mephiston. Not like he loved you. She was little better than your mother, who neglected your entire childhood in thrall to a mental sickness she refused to get treatment for until it was too late. Vigilance would never know Mephiston like you did. What he struggled with and what he was willing to do for the sake of the Imperium. What he would do for you. 

Your master would get to have his dream. He would get to be whole again. Despite what Vigilance believed, he would be the one to heal this broken galaxy. 

——————

Vigilance thought for sure Antros was going to kill her. The strange, iridescent silver that appeared over his head when he grabbed her seemed like it his psychic hood was shimmering. Preparing to throw a mental dart into her delicate brain meat. Over the years she had minor implants installed to protect against minor psychic invasions, but next to nothing could prevent a librarian of the space marines from ripping her apart. All he had to do was…think.

But, even as the silver feathers dancing above his scarred pate vanished, his expression remained benevolent. Curious even. Having never met the man before the interrogation, Vigilance was immediately wary. Instead, he was astonishingly gentle. Leading her away from all of the data she’d been about to erase. It was like a parent pulling their child off to the side to explain why they should be taking better care of their favorite toys. 

“Read this.” He’d said, revealing a book clamped to his armor. It was, in all sense of irony, human sized and made purely of paper rather leather and vellum. Flaking and ancient, he none the less took no heed to the book’s dilapidated state and shoved it into her hands. “This will all make sense later. I promise. You don’t even need to finish the book. Only a name will do.”

Then, Antros winked and turned towards her tablets. Vigilance almost roared and chucked the book at him. Demanded something that wasn’t just a vague suggestion or poorly veiled threat. She was so fucking sick of it. 

Just as casually as he’d handed her the book, Antros turned back to Vigilance and said. “You should run. Mephiston will be back and if the scholiast tells him that you tried to delete the cartography…well, I don’t think any warning from Rhacelus would be enough to protect you. You have done a lot more than know the wrong information, Vigilance.” 

The woman ran. All of the promises Rhacelus had made about her having a choice, she realized, were shiny little lies. No different than the Inquisitors, then. At least she no longer had limbs to lose. Maybe her tongue would be next, given the context. But, against all reason, she still had the book clutched to her chest as she escaped into the Reclusium There was nowhere else for her to go but Patience’s old cell. Since being ordered to work on that cursed map, she’d been rooming in one of the auxiliary cells adjacent to Mephiston’s personal chamber and librarium. One that had been fit for only servitors and temporary arrangements. 

Throwing herself back into a cot that smelt of someone she actually trusted almost calmed the full on anxiety attack that had all but pinched her metal spine in half. Now there was only tears produced by pure, unadulterated fear. That animal-intense terror of a known, inevitable and violent death. They would come and find her, eventually. 

Eventually. Vigilance clung to that last little promise though. The very last one she would ever truly believe. The book. The fucking book. After an hour of crying and heaving, the restorationist sunk back into her work. The room was dim even with the lumes on, and her old desk had not a single tool left, but she had her hands and her eyes. 

Originally, the cover was black and the font used was out of issue and nearly illegible. But she could still read it. 

FAUST 

The title made no sense. The word was familiar but the origins of it had been lost to the millennia. As was the language. Although the print was still crisp enough to attempt a reading. It soon became obvious that what she could read was translated and retranslated so often that any true details were obscured beyond understanding. But the main plot was evident enough. Faust was not a word but the name of the man who set aside holy duties to pursuit otherworldly knowledge at the cost of his own soul. This was not an unfamiliar concept. Vigilance had seen it paraded around so often during her childhood on Terra she’d been almost glad to ignore it once she began work as a restorationist. Going according to the family tradition that nothing was sacred in the name of preserving the old. Even gladder when she found that such lessons turned out to be flimsy at best. Certainly no one good men remained on Terra now. All save for Guilliman and the God Emperor upon His Throne. And her old masters, surely. She missed them terribly. Especially now…

But…

The name. She suddenly knew exactly what Antros meant when she came across the next name. At first she stupidly though it was a poorly mistranslated alternative, but no. There was nothing that could have been translated to or from that. 

Nor was it a misspelling. 

Mephistopheles. 

Vigilance could have laughed. Should have laughed, thrown the book away and left it at that. Were she anyone else who did not restore and date pieces of literature exactly like this, she would have. 

No. Mephiston did not predate Mephistopheles. The exact opposite was true. The concept of the devil’s agent of damnation was what birthed the chief librarian. She was sure of it. 

So very fucking sure. 

————————

Antros needed to be swift, and so he had. 

Barely needing to scry anymore. His visions led him on constant, twisting threads of vitae full of shadow and blood. The visions shamed him, if only because all of it bled from the paths of destruction left behind by his master. Ever since the incident on Thermia the codicer, then a mere lexicanium, became nearly obsessed with the idea of saving Mephiston from the shades that haunted him. It was sad the chief librarian was denying so much and the opaque blindness that was effecting even Antros and Rhacelus did not help. 

But there were ways. There were always ways. And never just one. The opening of his mind. Of the Rift, had shown him that. Even before then, if he was to be entirely honest with himself. Divinus Prime, when Rhacelus and his master first found out he’d sneaked a copy of the Glutted Scythe into his mind. When he uttered the words Mephiston himself had scrawled into its pages on the battlefield? Only the first of many, many similar instances. Only those other times he was better at hiding. Now it was almost embarrassingly easy to avoid suspicion. Now, it was almost embarrassingly easy to beat back the demons that hungered for his soul each time he let the words rattle from his lips. 

The Ephemeris was only the beginning. Antros knew where to find it because he dreamed of it. Had the words whispered to him in the depths of the blood sleep by a voice he never knew the name of came to be familiar with. He did not trust it of course. Oh, no. But he knew it spoke some measure of truth, and the truth is what Antros struggled so hard to find. To sift through the piles upon piles of lies and assumptions he and his master Mephiston were forced to make. 

He pitied the chief librarian, really. Pitied Rhacelus. But he pitied the scholiast the most. They had no idea what they’d fallen in love with. He made an attempt to nudge them in the right direction, but their soul was forever entangled with that of Mephiston’s now. To mess with that would mean discovery and that was a death promised not even he could prevent. 

But Vigilance? She was smart. She would understand what the book meant. She would be able to tell just how ancient of a story it was and she would act accordingly. Just as she always did. She would stay hidden, talk to the right people and maybe, just maybe, she would live through this. Her fate, like everything else was thanks to the blindness, totally obscured. He would have tried to see further if he could.

Antros muttered and looked at the memory crystal in his hand. He had not meant to scare the restorationist that much, but had to prevent her from erasing the cartography. At least not before Mephiston could get a look at it. At least not before he could have a copy of it for himself. It would dislodge some of the shadows. Some of the blood smeared across the lens of his mind. 

At least, that’s what he believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On another note, I'm here shoving in a ton of references and working my way up to what's essentially the main villain of this series all along. It may or may not be Antros. ;) You'll see. 
> 
> If you wanna know where Patience is in this chapter, please take a look at Wine Stained Silk, also in this series! They will be returning in the next chapter with a bit more about them and Incariel. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and leave a comment or kudos if you want!


	22. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further and further into the darkness you go, and the light at the end of the tunnel might just be a false hope...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot thickens something terrible! I realize we desperately need some comfort, but since we're moving directly into the events at the start of Revenant Crusade I've needed to put a lot of extras on hold. As such, this is also a VERY long chapter. I would suggest utilizing the bookmark feature to take notes when possible. Hell, even I'm having trouble cleaning up loose threads as it were. From now on, all chapters will be lead by canon events. This chapter in particular is directly before the first chapter of Revenant Crusade. 
> 
> Trigger warning for lies, and unintentional manipulation and all of the confusion and trauma that comes with it. Many characters, including the reader themself, will be accidentally misinterpreting what other people say and many plot points will be centered around that. Everyone will make dumb, emotionally driven choices where no one is to blame but everyone is at least somewhat of an asshole. It will be very, very important for character development later, I promise! 
> 
> Please do follow me on Twitter if you want to see wips and more! https://twitter.com/StormBlueStudi1

Perhaps you were unfair to Vigilance. 

This realization did not come immediately, but grew over time from a single, nagging thought to a hot scorn of internalized guilt. Having sated one another you and Mephiston attempted to talk of Vigilance but the conversation was oddly skewed. You truly didn’t wanted to talk about her. Or to tell your excited master what happened. To admit the cartography was not initially completed when you ran to get him. Or that the image of the serpent concurrent with what you’d seen on the salver was actually suspicious. That sort of avoidance wasn’t all that uncommon with you, but deep down you knew you should have known better. And you did know better. The salver still never came up in conversation. You didn’t even try. Vigilance was put out of your mind just as soon as your master’s cock had been in your mouth…

Oh, that was a slimy thought. Exploiting yourself and your master for your own gains. Focusing on your own desire instead of the matters at hand. Using sex as a means to avoid responsibility was an honestly horrible act and one you should apologize for, but the reluctance and anxiety to admitting such a wrong was hard to be rid of. Was it truly selfish or was it a happenstance of the situation? With no clear reference you found better judgement beyond your reach even if you strongly felt it should have been in your capabilities to do so. 

“Explains a lot about me, doesn’t it?” You hissed, pacing the carpeted flooring. Mephiston had long since departed with the digital cartography, leaving you alone with Vigilance’s many references and personal affects. At some point, while trying to get your thoughts together, you snooped through her things and what was left scattered on the desk. At some point you’d convinced yourself you were merely trying to understand her, rather than openly invading her privacy. It worked for a while. All that you found only compounded that terrible, terrible jealousy from before, working its way into your heart and doubts. Just like the serpent on the salver. 

Throne, you found tokens and official documents from Lord Guilliman himself. Already aware she came to Baal from the MacCragg’s Honor, it somehow didn’t occur to you that Vigilance spoke to the Lord Regent himself. Distractedly, you wondered why she never bothered to mention that to you and Patience. Or, at least, to you. Considering your actions just an hour ago, suddenly her secrecy made sense. 

Ashamed and angry with yourself, you carefully replaced what you ferreted out of her things and hoped no one would notice. Moments of selfish weakness like this could not continue. Before you were hit by another wave of jealous temptation, you shuddered and went bolting from your master’s personal chambers. 

Vigilance couldn’t have gotten far, right? If you were in her situation, perhaps you would have holed up somewhere to hide. But where? You found it hard to imagine there was anywhere on the ship she could have hidden without someone knowing her whereabouts. Lord Mephiston certainly could have found her. Or even Rhacelus or Antros. 

Instead, your first thought was Patience. If you were Vigilance you would have gone back to Patience. And so to the Reclusium you went, leather sandals tapping out a desperate rhythm as you made your way up towards the spine of the ship. Running only into ship menials and the rare battle brother, the halls leading into the Reclusium were largely empty as evening prayer was already over and the crowds had cleared out. 

Thus you had a straight shot into the Reclusium itself. By then a majority of the grande space had been cleaned and replaced. Fresh marble tiles were laid, roughly the same shape and color as before. A brand new collection of rugs muffled your footfalls as you raced under the apse where Sanguinius’s domed visaged stared down at you. Today, he seemed solemn and tired. The cleaning process had dulled his paint slightly, the luster not quite restored. The altar…the altar could not be replaced and so it remained stained with dark, rusty blood. It had been chemically scoured mind you, but there was only so much that could be done once the stains had set in. Unnaturally so, it seemed. 

You refused to think of it further, padding silently through the choir and past the sacristy where the residential hall laid. Like before it was quiet and clean where you and Patience had spent time getting rid of the mouldering flowers and old tallow candles. At some point, you noticed that the torn open portal leading into…that place was blocked off with medical tarp and warning runes. Maybe there had been further investigation…?

There was no Patience, however. Their cell hatch was locked and knocking wasn’t answered. Nor was there a Vigilance, apparently. In reality, the woman could realistically be in the cell, just not answering the door. That seemed…not like her, somehow. 

“Do I know her at all, really?” You wondered as you gave up after nearly ten minutes of knocking and waiting. It was pointless and wasting your time. As you left, the autolumes in the hall dimmed, but the half-lit chapel now glowed gold and red. Its master had returned. Incariel’s robed form and bald head startled you at first until you found his miniature standing just in front of him, clad in almost exactly the same way. 

Patience seemed surprised to see you but their face quickly brightened as they rushed over. “Scholiast! It’s good to see you.”

Managing a smile that actually wasn’t nervous, you replied. “It’s good to see you too. I was just coming to check on you and Vigilance.”

“I’m more than fine actually! I’ve not seen much of Vigilance since the interview I’m afraid.”

“Are you sure? I thought for sure she’d be back here.”

Incariel took the time to reply, his copper skinned head shaking gently. “No. She was moved to a chamber adjacent to Mephiston’s quarters from what she’s told me. You took up her spot up until very recently.”

Patience was nodding in confirmation. 

“I see…well, I suppose I’ll need to ask one of my lords.” You sighed, but then Patience had a hold of your hands, eyes wet and shining with stars. 

“I have a secret. Just between me, you and lord Incariel.” 

“Yes…?”

“Me and Incariel…” They blushed. “We’re in love. We…consummated our love as well.”

Incredulous, you glanced around Patient’s robed shoulder and saw with giddy eyes as Incariel himself blushed in turn, nodding and hiding a wide-mouthed grin behind the folds of his hood. 

“I’m so happy for you both! Might I…admit something as well?”

Patience nodded rapidly.

“Me and Mephiston are the same as you and Incariel. Even before we left Baal…” You gave out a not so chaste giggle. “I’ve not said yes to consummation yet, but…I love him. We have said it, too!”

You grunted as Patience laughed and immediately embraced you. There was something…so very validating about it. About not being the only one to love and be loved by their master like that. It was no longer so…singular. It made you feel all the closer to Patience. 

“Mind if I ask…are Vigilance and Rhacelus…?”

The other thrall blinked. “I don’t know…she never mentioned having anything to do with lord Rhacelus.”

“O-Oh…I see.” 

Then, Incariel held up a hand. At his throat, the skull shaped vox bead chirped and burbled out an order only he could hear. It was startling seeing his amiable, if slightly stoic face turn suddenly very serious. Before he could give voice to what transpired, the misshapen cherub Vidiens fluttered into view, landing on a colonnade just a few yards away.

“Lord Mephiston summons his scholiast to his side on the grande bridge of the Blood Caller.” Crowed the servitor, wings fight to keep balance. 

Sharing a look with Patience, you had little time to discuss the orders before Incariel confirmed he was summoned for the same purpose. Locking hands with Patience, there was a scattered attempt to continue looking for Vigilance but Incariel approached. 

“Patience. Help me dress.”

Reluctantly Patience unlocked their hands from yours. “We’ll catch up, I promise. Go with the servitor.”

Agreeing, you turned away from the new couple and padded after Vidien’s chattering form.

———

Watching their friend take their leave, Patience finally turned away and followed after Incariel, their heart leaping in their chest. This would be the first time the Blood Caller had ever been on anything resembling a war footing since living memory and Patience could not help but feel anxious. They matched their master’s long strides with their quicker, shorter feet. Racing back through the sacristy and then up the hidden stairwell that wound towards the clerestory and then to the right. 

Patience had only been here once, and recently at that, but the imagery of the sub rosa cloister with its flickering, flame-mouthed skulls still managed to strike them as sacredly terrifying. By then the gaping belfry also had its new resident. The massive copper bell could not be clearly seen from billow, but its vast, luminous mouth struck streaks of orange fire across the obscured door as Incariel undid the blood lock and shouldered it aside.

Immediately the familiar kerosine lamps blazed to life, brighter than before. As if sensing their master’s urgency, the two servo skulls fluttered into the chamber, lighting torches and activating the machine spirits of the arming chamber. Patience seemed to be moving on instinct as much as hardwired training. Their robed form strode into one of the many antechambers containing their tools of duty and artifacts of prayer. Litanies came to their lips purely out of memory, or perhaps something soul-deep. Filling and lighting a thurible to set it swinging in their hands. Heavy strings of blood stones and other ancestral and cultural items were carried out and prepared to be included as part of Incariel’s panoply of war. 

As Patience did their duties to the chaplain, Inacriel allowed his robes to fall away, revealing his nakedness to the chill, golden air as he backed towards an arming rack set below a black stone tympanum. Soft clamps concealed into the artistry unfolded and began to arrange the pieces of his sacred battle plate about him. Above and around the chaplain, the pair of servo skulls sealed him into a fresh body glove. Incariel grunted at the tightness of the material, sucked flush to his skin as each seam clung to the segment adjacent to it. 

Returning to his side, Patience gently ran their hands along his body, anointing him with scented oils and smoothing out any air bubbles from the glove before backing away. As one each piece of armor locked into place with a sharp hiss of air. To Incariel it came as an icy, yet comforting sting as each nueurojack slid into their ports along his body, filling the chaplain’s bones, muscles and organs with an almost pleasing numbness. Then the systems began to spool up. Skin tingling, the power reactor was last and replaced the cold sting with a hot, ample burn that invaded every square inch of his body until he could no longer tell where his skin ended and his armor began. 

Finally, his helm and croxius. Patience bore the former, its heft almost too much for them to carry, wrapped in a heavy velvet veil they pulled away presenting it to him. Incariel accepted it one-handed, carefully lowering the helm over his bare head while, almost automatically, a gauntleted hand closed over the familiar weight of his weapon of office. It was his, but not originally. All of the chaplains that came before him on the Blood Caller save for Astorath himself had wielded it. Diruniel included. It made the weight seem all that more significant. 

But his armored strength all too easily took the weight, bringing the sacred maul into a two handed grip as his helm’s machine spirit stirred. Patience and the chamber beyond melded into sensor-heavy focus. When he spoke, it was the growl of a lion.

“The vestments.”

And they did. Votives and blood stones were strung on his waist, fixed with heavy clamps. Purity seals were pinned to the sable ceramite with fat discs of wax. Finally, a miniature reliquary of ash from sacred Baal hung from his belt. 

Patience scurried away as Incariel stepped from the arming rack, rumbling. “Come, Patience. Attend me.”

———

Vigilance huddled at the foot of Damos’s cot, sobbing shakily even as she and the sanguinary priest continued to speak like they had been for the last hour or so. 

“I’m not going to say anything, I promise.” He sighed, turned away from her as he made minute adjustments to his Narthecium, sharpening the blades of a bone saw meant to cleave through the hardened, segmented ribcage of an Astartes. 

The woman was reluctant to believe him. To believe anyone really. “Even if ordered?”

Damos paused and for the first time she thought he looked angry rather than just lambently annoyed. “If I am ordered, I am duty bound to the truth, woman. You know that. But I’m not going to out you otherwise. You may stay as long as you like, but I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

Vigilance cringed and curled up around an ancient, flaking book as if it were her child. “I…thank you, my lord.”

In reality the women really was not expecting Damos to harbor her at all. She had fled to him yes, but she’d rather he be the one to drag her to the brig than Rhacelus or Throne forbid, Mephiston. He was literally the only one she trusted not to kill her right now.

When Damos glance around once more, his pinched, dark-faced expression softened. “You should try and explain what happened anyways. I know you’re scared, but we aren’t Inquisitors, Vig. We aren’t going to stick a knife in your back as soon as you turn around.” 

Ironic, given that the woman was pressed flat against the opposite wall, refusing to show him anything but her front. These were the instincts of a soldier, not a fucking restorationist from Holy Terra. 

“Hah…funny you say that.” The woman croaked. And then she made him understand just how painfully accurate that joke had been. 

“Ah…this explains the augments.” He muttered flatly. Without thinking, he walked over and gingerly tugged at her sleeves as he had done during the interrogation. It was strange, seeing all of her bluster and confidence vanish. Devastating, actually. 

“I’m not going to say anything.” He whispered it this time. “But I still think you should be honest. Try to have just a little more trust. Please.”

Vigilance’s expression twisted into a scowl. “And if they try to kill me? Or accuse me of slander?”

“Then I will vouch for you. You’re a paranoid little shit, but I’ve been there before. I find it ironic that you hide so much from people but are willing to try and blow the top off what you consider to be a conspiracy theory. You’ve seen enough of them I’m sure, but this is the chief librarian, Vig. Lord Mephiston. You can’t just…entertain those sorts of thoughts about him. It’s heresy. And I don’t say that lightly, trust me.” 

“…and the book? And Diruniel?”

Damos directed his gaze towards the literature in suspect. Vigilance was clutching it so hard the crumbling paper was creating a faint, yellow snow on her skirted lap. He had little to say on it. If Antros had indeed given her that book, then it was for an esoteric reason he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Having never met Antros personally, the question seemed almost obtuse. He was about to express exactly that when the vox bead in his ear summoned him, and all other battle brothers, to the bridge.

Vigilance watched him go, appreciative of the fact he did not try and ask her to come. She had other plans despite the grain of hope Damos managed to restored in her trauma ridden skull. Once enough time passed she would leave. Hide away in the old maintenance corridors or, if she was brave enough, in the bowels of the ship where the bulkheads were freezing and the naked hum of the shields could be heard. It would suck, but it would let her think. As much as she wanted to divorce herself from the past, the woman was beginning to deeply regret agreeing to the project. Regretting even sleeping with Rhacelus. She was drunk, aroused and essentially used the old librarian for a good time. At least that’s what it felt like.

“I’m a little whore.” Vigilance breathed. “I didn’t even try to talk to Rhacelus afterwords. I almost wanted to sleep with lore Damos, too.” 

Pawing at her wet eyes, she considered what Rhacelus might feel about the situation. Did he pity her? Like her? Love her like Mephiston loved the Scholiast? 

Oh, Throne, the Scholiast. She’d forgotten all about them. Vigilance was positive they would have told the chief librarian everything by now. Damos might vouch for her, but the thrall was actually there, witness to her not so little breach of conduct. Lord Mephiston specifically told her not to give out any details about the cartography, but lo and behold that order went utterly ignored in light of paranoia and her own trauma-twisted moralities. Good intentions, terrible fucking execution. They were probably right about her sleeping with Rhacelus too. 

“Great job, Vig. You really shot yourself in the foot with this one!”

The book went flying from her hands, voluntarily smashing it against a work desk in a flurry of abused, brittle paper. 

“Fuck Antros! Fuck Mephistopheles! Fuck Faust!” Screamed the restorationist, leaving the ripped and shattered book there on the floor as she retreated to the cot, hissing. She was there for only a moment more before she went stomping for the door, intent on disappearing… 

———

Stepping onto the gantry meant for thralls to have easy access to the bridge, you could already tell the place was a bustle of activity and business. Menials and ship officials who were in uniform rather than duty robes strode to and from a slew of nested terminals and work stations, creating a background noise all on their own. Tech adepts and servitors brought along their own choirs of bleeping, static laden speech as they processed data and shuffled through reams of punchcard programing. 

You did your best to ignore all of this, keeping your eyes cast just far enough ahead to both keep pace with Vidiens and dodge the forest of legs and cables that littered the decking like creeping vines. Eventually you reached the bridge itself and it was all you could do not to stop and stare. What had been a flurry of activity turned stoic and almost demure with professionalism. There was still a terrible din of noise, but it was as much the ship as it was the people. And it wasn’t just humans. Astartes of both Primaris and the old breed stood at attention at regular intervals along each side of the massive, tiered blood-drop shaped depression in the floor, fanning out into pinions of ceramite. All of them were armed and armored. You did a headcount. Or at least tried. You managed to spot lords Damos and Bellerion among them, but only just. Incariel and Patience, however, were far easier to spot as black points stood in a visage of red, white and gold. 

You also found your master. He was easy to pick out of the crowd despite the sea of blood red and gold. Stood in conversation with Rhacelus and Antros nearly at the dead center of the chamber, you recognized lieutenant Servatus and another you had not met, sergeant Agorix according to his armor markings. Dodging yet more bodies, you wound down each tier until you were nearly out of breath. 

You…felt rather than heard lord Mephiston’s order and you scurried to obey, attending him. From above you could not see what the Blood Angels were congregating about until you ducked under Rhacelus’s elbow and spotted the cartography. It was still contained within Vigilance’s hard light tablet, but now it was projecting data directly into the ship’s main cogitator, displaying that same sickening cyan serpent at an unsettling size. Thankfully it was angled away from you, zoomed in on one particular sector overlaid with the more comforting colors of the a modern, updated map. A wing blood drop signified the Blood Caller’s current location, slowly drifting under the belly of the snake. 

“Hydrus Ulterior?” Ask sergeant Agorix, his unhelmed features furrowed slightly. 

Vidiens, having arrived with you, roosted on the gold stamped frame of the cogitator. “An ice world dedicated to Mechanicus manufactorums. Largely famous for an unusually large number of corpuscarii woven into the world’s many bastions. It is overseen by one Magos Calx.”

The servitor paused, one grotesque augmented eye whirling. “In recent months it has been crying out for help. Overrun by a contingent of orks from Waaaagh Brightskull.”

Your stomach dropped. Orks. Only Tyranids were worse besides. Twisted, pig-faced and bellicose, you could hardly believe such creatures were able to even exist let alone be capable of forming war klans such as they did. 

Agorix, however, seemed wholly unconcerned. “I see. If its a recent incursion it shouldn’t be hard to root them out. Where is this war boss supposedly located?”

“I am not concerned with the warboss.” Mephiston intervened. “This world has to be the source of my blindness. The cartography has pointed here.” One armored finger traced shimmering, perfect lines of cyan towards the tiny green dot highlighted by the cogitator. As data continued to stream through the ship’s latent sensors, the crude totem of the orks formed and hung above the planet like a guillotine.

You remembered helping Vigilance translate that part of the map, but nowhere had it mentioned anything about Mephiston’s blindness or even orks. In fact that part had been so old you’d needed to parse through a dead language just to give it a name, and it wasn’t Hydrus Ulterior. What exactly your master was seeing in the map was indeed something only he could see. Or, perhaps, Rhacelus and Antros as well. 

“My lord?” Agorix continued. “Then what shall be our course of action?”

Mephiston’s eyes flickered for but a moment, but the cogitator immediately responded. In a whirl of light and numbers, the cartography spun, totally replaced by the more demure and stoic imagery of the planet in full. Indeed it was an icy, iron wrought world dotted by massive semi-frozen seas and deltas dammed off by sprawling strongholds and fortresses. One in particular came into focus. 

“The most recent location of the distress transmission.” Vidiens explained. “Send by Magos Calx just a week ago.”

Servatus clanged his fist against the Aquila spread across his chest. “I will have the hellblaster squads ready within the hour.” 

While Mephiston was focused on reading through auxiliary data noted on the cartography, you gulped and risked a glance at the other librarians. Rhacelus’s cobalt eyes were narrowed, and Antros looked almost…uncertain. As if he was having difficulty reading a passage of text. Then he shared a brief, confused look with Rhacelus that you sure transpired as telepathic conversation. You cringed and looked away, feeling the chief librarian’s hand on your shoulder. 

“Continue preparation. We depart for the planet within the hour as Servatus has laid forth.” 

As one the gathered Blood Angels saluted and took their leave in a hammer of boots and metal. Fresh messages were cycled through the angelic vox casters set in the walls with the bridge exploding into new activity all over again. But all of that became suddenly very dull as you followed lord Mephiston and the librarians, sound and energy fading away as you made your way to the librarius deep in the chest of the Blood Caller. 

“My lord? I wish to speak to the scholiast briefly.” Antros spoke up, almost halting the march. 

“Do so. I wish for you to remain on the ship. This may very well be the source of my blindness, but you have your other duties.”

“Other duties?” Rhacelus spoke up, nearly incredulous. “And what of the war boss? Why not liberate this world after we’ve purged the blindness? I feel it too, but should we not be vowed to purge these xenos as well?”

“Once my blindness is cured this world will be purged regardless. I feel this is far deeper than any ork is capable of, Rhacelus. The cartography…” He said with such force it startled both you and the epistolary. 

Mephiston shook his head and keep walking. “I can’t be shrouded in doubt now, my friend. Antros knows what he’s doing and the scholiast has and will do their part. They are to be welcomed into the Quorum Empyrric in due time and they must be involved. For now, we have a battle to fight.”

Rhacelus looked like he wanted to say more, directing a subtle glare towards Antros before marching off after Mephiston. Antros came to a full stop, halting just ahead of you.

By then you were out of breath, nervous and looking up at the codicer in dubiety. Something about his expression seemed…uncertain. As if he were being made to speak with his mouth clamped shut. It was a strange, struggling expression that lasted only seconds before he slowly turned and knelt.

“Do you still have my blood stone?”

“O-Of course.” You muttered, fumbling your hands to where its comforting weight was settled in your pocket. “Why do you ask? What’s going on?”

“He told you about the demon, didn’t he?”

Your face paled. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You lied.

“Shhh, not here.” He stood and gingerly dragged you up and away from the hall, ducking into one of many antechambers unlit in the darkness. By then he had you against a wall, standing in a way that both prevented your escape and blocked your view of the exit. Had this been anyone else you might have felt threatened, but you could trust Antros. 

Right?

“Do you understand why you were so disgusted and afraid of the serpent?”

“I…I never told anyone about that!”

“Vigilance did. She told me, scholiast. She told me everything.”

“It…it was my fault!” You blurted, unable to keep the well of shock from flowing out of your mouth. “I panicked and went to get Mephiston when that serpent…oh, Throne it was the same one on the salver. I wasn’t supposed to see that! I should have looked away!”

Antros laid a hand across your chest, firmly but carefully pinning you to the wall. You did not struggle, gasping softly into the pressure until the urge to flee slowly fled. Realizing, faintly, the pressure wasn’t just physical but mental. A sliver of his own consciousness hovered just at the edge of your mind, reading, watching, calming. 

“Vigilance won’t be coming back.”

“It wasn’t her fault…it wasn’t…” You gasped, trying to scream. Trying to do anything about the gentle but oppressive presence holding you down. 

“Yes it was. She was not supposed to show you what was on that map, but she did anyways knowing Mephiston had expressly ordered her not to. She disobeyed him directly.” He leaned in closer, expression so calm and unbothered it was almost scary. “And she did worse. She tried to erase the cartography and everything on it.”

You didn’t know that. That was… “Th-that’s not…Throne, why? Why would she try and do that? What stopped her?”

“I did.” He confessed, finally pulling away. “If I hadn’t our master would be back to square one and the salver would still be blank. But I stopped her iconoclastic behavior and finished the map.” With heartbreaking passion and gentleness he grasped your hands. Almost pleadingly. “We’re going to lift our master from the darkness, scholiast. I know it! I will find Vigilance and put her right, but she can’t harm you or Mephiston’s plans any longer.”

“But why?” You whispered, shaking as Antros scrubbed the frightened tears from your eyes. “I thought she was my friend…”

“That serpent is an image of the Rift, predicted to split the galaxy in half since the Age of Strife. Vigilance is no pysker, but she understood enough from her research. She’s had to restore maps like that for careless, unknowing Inquisitors before and soon the patterns all started to…match. This was simply the final nail in the coffin that pulled apart her sanity. It hurt me to do so, but I’ve followed her every step of the way through the cartography in secret, knowing what she would see and what she would try and do. Imagine if I hadn’t shown up when I did.” 

You refused to continue that train of thought. “And the…the demon? What does this all have to do with it?”

Antros paused for a moment. “The cartography? It’s an anchor point. With this blindness obscuring Mephiston’s second sight he needed that old thing to pick up where we left off. All of the threads that led from Divinitus Prime eventually ended when we hunted down the demon’s minions. He needs the salver to continue.” 

You remembered hearing about the events of Divinitus Prime from Rhacelus but couldn’t believe that Antros was so openly discussing it with you now. Slowly, you were becoming angry. Coming to the conclusion that Vigilance isn’t the only one who was trying to tell you far too much. But this wasn’t Vigilance, but Antros. Mephiston’s most trusted codicier. Yet…

“Mephiston doesn’t want me knowing any of this, I don’t think.” You tried. “Not yet. I…my lord, I know you’re trying to keep me out of the dark, but this is beyond me. And Vigilance…Throne, please don’t kill her. I never got to tell Mephiston what happened. Not fully. Let me try and talk to him first. Maybe we can get this all sorted out?”

He slowly shook his head. “This is beyond you, you’re right. But the moment you fell in love with the chief librarian you became involved.”

Irritated and resisting his second attempt at calming your mind you tried to shove him away. It was as productive as toppling a marble statue with your bare hands. “I guess Vigilance told you about my relationship with him too, huh!?”

“She did.” He sighed, finally pulling back and letting you go. “Please. Try not to take it the wrong way. I want to protect you, but there’s more going on than you realize. Not even Mephiston or Rhacelus is seeing the bigger picture. But I do, scholiast. I can’t say how or why, but I need your help…please?”

“Why my help? Why not Rhacelus or Mephiston?”

“Mephiston is going mad and Rhacelus is too concerned with the chief librarian’s own personal safety to see beyond the threads. It has to be you. I was going to involve Vigilance as well, but…” He shrugged. “You know what will happen with her.”

“So you’re going behind everyone’s backs to prevent…whatever it is you’re trying to prevent?”

“Is that not what our master is doing?” Antros blinked in confusion. “How much do you think even Lord Commander Dante knows of our exploits? Of his madness? Nothing, is the answer. Its up to the ones who do know to try and save him and everyone else in his path. It might be too late for Vigilance, but not for you. Not for Patience. We can stop this. Don’t you want that?”

“I do! But…Throne, Antros I don’t know what to think. This all feels so…dishonest.”

It is, isn’t it?” He whispered. “I’ve had my doubts too. So many doubts, but if I sit here and do nothing about them, than I could never live with myself. Even if I’m proven wrong, I still need to do something!”

Still so very confused and frustrated, you were starting to think he had a point. “He…he said he needs me. I love him so much, Antros, but I have no idea how I’m going to keep him from falling any further than he already has.”

“He will have his eyes set on the demon, and he will not care who he has to step over to reach that goal. Remind him of his humanity. Remind him that there is more to life than war and blood.” Antros looked away. “I have to look past the lies and the doubts.”

“Lies…?”

The codicier shook his head. “I don’t know what will become of me, but I know what will become of Mephiston. You and Rhacelus are the key, scholiast. Of that I am sure.”

Before you could voice your concerns, Antros’s crown shimmered with silver feathers and your mind felt heavy. “Everything will be alright. I promise.”

When you woke, Antros was nowhere in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This took a bit of time to plan and write but I hope you like it! Many plot threads are finally starting to come to a close with more taking their place. Please comment if you have any thoughts, feelings or theories. You may or many not be right! ;)
> 
> Damos and Bellerion are OCs created by a friend and used in this story with permission.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	23. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delusions and closure mix in a bitter sweet agony of knowing. But is ignorance truly bliss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who wishes to get in touch with me, please feel free to follow my Twitter https://twitter.com/StormBlueStudi1
> 
> OR add me on Discord STORMY#8826
> 
> Two chapters this month it looks like! I had thought of continuing to moving the story forward plot wise, but I feel like this chapter closes off a lot of threads and provides some much needed behind the scenes work and some comfort/closure I know my readers have been wanting and needing especially after the last one!
> 
> In the end I hope this answers a lot of questions while still leaving many more open. ;)
> 
> HUGE thanks to my friend Kin for both helping me look over/proofread this chapter and providing me with a main character. More credits and spoilery bits will be at the end of the chapter!
> 
> Note, this chapter heavily references Blood of Sanguinius, although it doesn't follow along that plot.
> 
> Final note! Patience is canonically agender and a grey asexual, using they/them pronouns.

As the Blood Caller plunged into battle, Antros crept through the Librarius and into his personal chambers. He had half a mind to bring the scholiast with him. If only to spare them from the web he knew was coming, but the codicer stilled his hand. Instead he had carried them further into the antechamber, safely depositing them upon an old bloodwood table. They would wake in due time. Vigilance would remain hidden as intended. A player remaining upon the board. 

Antros felt guilty over what he had to tell both her and the scholiast, knowing one or both of them would be telling the others what he’d done, but it would be too late by then. If the portents were as correct as he thought it they would be, the restorationist might just…

He shook his head, freeing it of the thought, shouldering the hatch of his chambers closed. Both archaically and physically sealing it behind him. Not even Rhacelus would be able to pry the locks loose. The codicer did not want to admit how he learned those tricks. So much of it stolen. So much of it cobbled together. So much…

The worst source of his knowledge sat on a small wooden altar towards the back of the room, as obscured as the rest of his cluttered workspaces. Full of occult relics and his own scrawling. Some of which were…inappropriate in a purely physical, sexual sense. Notes he’d written of his own male anatomy that no Astartes should be openly researching. Yet here he was. Antros purposefully had to divert his eyes from some of the drawings, trying not to think of his thrall waiting for him elsewhere in the ship. Instead he pulled his eyes back towards the object at the back of the room. 

It was a doll. Not a child’s thing, but a carved effigy he knew was meant to resemble Mephiston, but it was such an idealized, dreamlike depiction as to be almost laughable. Yet what it told him was anything but. As he knelt down in front of the low altar, staring at the figure, he remembered how he came across it in the first place. Crawling through the ruins of Volgatis on sore legs, helping Mephiston carry a wounded Rhacelus, the doll had somehow found itself tangled among the ruins of his armor. Hooked onto a spur of ceramite that had been all but peeled away from his shin by the diamond hard teeth of a demon. He hadn’t even noticed the curious little tagalong until he was already on the Blood Oath some weeks later. Then again, Antros’s memories of the grueling walk back from Volgatis to the capital of Divinus Prime felt…muddy. Occluded somehow. He never thought much of it until he was finally able to pry himself out of his armor and found the doll clinging to it. 

Overtime he’d begun to understand its purpose. Tasted its memories through touch and smell the way the blind read the world. He had not known how to do this previously, but he’d learned quickly that his powers were evolving even back then. Now, nearly a full century later, he could touch the doll and see nearly anything and everything. 

This is what he did now.

“Astra Angelus.” Antros breathed but not with his own voice. Not at first. It was that of a woman, gurgling through her fire-ruined throat. Saw through her lidless, rheumy eyes into a sparse living space. Felt the sheer discomfort of raw, charred muscle rubbing inside power armor. Ophiusa’s perspective was always the first thing Antros experienced but it thankfully never lasted long. Her memories faded away just as quickly, leaving his skin sore and tingling until his vision was thrown back through time. When the words Astra Angelus was first uttered by the lips of the Sororitas and knew, as he’d always known, that those words were not from Mephiston, let alone the Emperor. 

But what, exactly, had been whispering into the Saint’s ear for all those years? What had been possessing the doll, blasphemously using the voice of his master to trick her? That was the mystery. That was what Antros struggled for nearly a century to unravel.  
“It has to be you.” Antros whispered into the dark of the vision. “I don’t know your name, or your true voice, but it has to be you. Mephiston spent all these years hunting you and your minions. I have to know!”

As usual, his utterances fell on deaf ears. As usual, he knew also that the doll was now an empty vessel. Sometimes he would get a taste of what had been possessing its tiny wooden body, but it was hardly enough. Never enough.

Eventually, hissing, he forced his fingers to let go of the effigy. It went clattering to the altar, face down. His vision cleared, no longer seeing the world through Ophiusa’s eyes. There was little to glean from the vision save for the Saint’s memories of madness and faith, slowly twisted by the false voice issued from the doll she’d painted red with her own blood. The idea that it had demanded such mutilated faith from her always sent his blood boiling after these ventures. He had never met the Sister save through seeing through her visions, but Antros saw and heard everything she did and said to the doll, and what it had said to her. Every single conversation. It took him years to listen to it all and years more pouring over the details. Trying to find clues. Anything he could use. Ultimately it all boiled down to base lies and stupefaction. Effectively turning a Saint of the Sororitas into a tool to get to Mephiston. 

Sighing shakily, Antros scrubbed rheum from his eyes and let his chambers come back into focus. All of his tools of scrying and arcane had been of little help as well. But…

His eyes fell on the memory crystal and the miniature pict projector in the corner of one work station, bolted to the frame with brass clamps. He hadn’t used it in years. Next to it, his scrying bowl sat still filled with icy water. It was an ancient thing, marked with runes he’d seen the doll scratch into Ophiusa’s flesh the day she burnt it all off. They’d triggered portents that even now were coming true and he’d refused to use it again since. 

Antros shivered, remembering what he’d seen. What he’d said to the scholiast. What he’d stolen from Vigilance. 

Without a word he stood and went for the projector, silently slotting the crystal into its slot and letting the frame spool to life. And, when the imagery finally bloomed in full, he knew exactly what he was looking at. He’d been able to complete it because that’s what he’d seen in the scrying bowl. Seeing it better for the second time without the pressure of trickery souring the achievement, he knew. 

This was the true Ephemeris, picking up exactly where the little iron bolt had left off all those years ago. It had taken so little time to track down that witch Livia and the child who accompanied her that the effort seemed almost insulting. Dharmia, Antros recalled with little interest. Both of them had died in the end. No matter how long they waited, their master had not been there for them, having picked up Mephiston’s scent years ago and fled. And so, the girl, now grown into adolescence and mutated beyond anything Antros would have safely considered human, had died first. Her wish had been to sprout little fairy wings and so she did. Then she wished for shimmering, glossy hair and so she had it. Until all of her passing whimsies had been granted and by then it was too late for her to realize how twisted and fanatical her body had become. Dharmia had screamed in horror as Rhacelus ended the child’s life in front of Livia. Livia, who had raged and raged at the death of her friend but had done little to prevent it. She, too, was easy prey now that neither of them were receiving her master’s blessings. She and the child were little better than tools to be thrown away. Little better than the doll. 

“Little better than Vigilance.” Antros moaned regretfully as the cartography spun in front of him, slow and graceful. He could see every pattern, every thread he’d ever need. He saw Hydrus Ulterior, Morsus and Sabassus and every planet in between. It would take him months to read everything, and longer still to plan ahead of his master and Rhacelus, but he had what he needed. He would circumvent the mistakes Mephiston would inevitably make and save him in the process. All of it could come true. Antros just…had to be careful. He had to make sacrifices and do many things he would likely regret. The least of which would be going behind everyone’s backs. That, he was shockingly willing to do so, much to his own misery. 

“Explains a lot about me, doesn’t it?” Antros echoed, tapped the edge of the scrying bowl, and got to work. 

———

Waking with a jolt, you had sat up and winced as the surface you’d laid upon refused to let your spine bend for a second. Antros hadn’t moved you far, but it had still taken you a bit to remember where you were and why you were asleep in the first place. Then you got angry, stamping from the antechamber to try and find the codicer but had no luck. Only then had you figured out nearly all Blood Angels were embattled on the surface already. 

That was hours ago. 

“I’m a key. Me and Rhacelus.” You scrubbed at your hair, ruffling your hood in your frustration. “What does it all mean?”

You looked around the dimness of your personal cell, as if the answer would be there, somewhere. The only thing you found was the drawing of the white warrior, sitting on your desk untouched. It had been days, hadn’t it? Or hours? The ship’s day and night cycles had certainly made a mockery of your perspective of time and your relationship with it felt…complicated somehow. Without bothering to try pursuing that train of thought, you lifted the drawing from your desk and stared at it. Now that you were seeing it with fresh eyes you began to see flaws in the art that you could not seem to care about. Squinting, you sat and wondering what the warrior was doing here, and what he wanted. What Diurniel wanted, aside from hissing warnings about your master. Those, you hate to admit, had birthed little worms of doubt in your gut fed by everything Antros told you hours before. 

"I never did get to show to this to Rhacelus.” You muttered. “But I should show Patience. Patience might know what to do.”

And so that is what you did. Even without the hustle of battle brothers through out the ship, the place still hummed with activity maintaining high anchor over Hydrus Ulterior in the presence of the enemy. You did not care about any of that, instead walking the familiar path to the Reclusium and hoping to find your friend there. Without Incariel, the place felt oddly empty and almost sterile until you felt the chill. And heard Patience controverting with…someone else. 

You saw just as much as felt Duirniel’s sable incarnation standing at the threshold of the residential hall, taking up the entire egress and casting a long shadow across Patience’s tiny form. Panicked, you stuffed the drawing into your robes and went flying down the left aisle, determined to intercept the confrontation and drag your friend away from the hulking phantom. Just as you were about to grab ahold of Patience from behind, Diurniel looked up at you and you were, suddenly, very frozen in place. Not physically, but out of fear. You stood, gaping back at him as Patience gasped and rushed over to you. 

“Scholiast!” They hissed. “What are you…?”

Finding enough bravery to actually move, you tried to drag the chapel thrall off their feet. “Get away from him!”

Patience, despite their size, did not move easily. “Wait, wait, please! You’ve got this all wrong. I’m trying to talk to him!”

“Scholiast.”

You both stopped, staring wide eyed as Diurniel finally moved. He was just as horrifying as before but…different. His armor was still torn open but he was now as hollow as a rotten tree, leaking cold blue mist but no blood nor organs occupied any part of his torso. The helm he had reclaimed from the altar now sat in its proper place, hiding his neck stump and all of the gore present in a full decapitation. That he was able to see you through something resembling eyes did little for his image, however. 

Before you could bolt from the sacristy, Patience gently jostled you back to life. “We’re just…just talking I promise.”

“There is much to explain.” The phantom growled. “Time is slipping away.”

Patience looked at you. “You don’t have to hear what he has to say, but I do. I’m the one he’s haunting, not you.”

With an effort you gently shook Patience’s hands from your shoulders. “I need to hear this. I’m tired of being scared.”

Diurniel, apparently pleased, ducked back through the egress and led you and Patience into…that room. The room you both had never wanted to enter. It smelt of rust and disuse, but Diurniel’s solid form easily brushed aside the tarpaulin and warning stripes. Without any other choice, you and Patience entered. Immediately you knew why. It was like stepping into a liminal space. Nothing felt real. Time seemed to still and the light beyond the threshold did not reach as far into the room as it should have. The urge to run was almost overwhelming, mitigated only by clinging to Patience, and Patience in turning clinging to you. It took much longer for Diruniel to stop than what was logical. The room should not have gone that far back, but it did. And when he turned around, he was…whole. 

Alive. 

Kneeling before you and Patience, the man the phantom had once been slowly removed his helm, revealing a face scarred from battle but not separated from his shoulders like it should have been. In fact only a rope of puckered flesh marked where that fatal injury had happened. And he was indeed everything a Blood Angel should be. Dark skinned, even more so than Damos and Rhacelus's, with deep, considering eyes to match. He was old, but still visibly handsome and wise, and when Patience laid eyes upon him they began to sob, abasing themselves before the chaplain that had named them.

Diurniel, his voice no longer distorted by death and the snarl of the vox, lifted Patience from the floor. “Enough of that. Come. Hear what I need to say and take it to heart.”

And so you did, collecting the chapel thrall enough to listen.

“I am tethered to this ship. The shame and anger I felt at being unable to protect your parents prevented me from returning to the Emperor’s side. My soul, inevitably, came to orbit yours as you grew. I saw everything, even if you could not see me then. The rift…the rift does strange, torturous things even to souls stuck in the in between. I was locked in a perpetual state of rage and agony. Being around Patience was the only thing that eased it. When Mephiston entered the ship, it only became worse. The thin veil of reality peeled away and gave a voice to my rage. But it also brought on memories. For you see, thralls, my soul is also tied to his through the fate of my old mentor, Reclusiarch Quirinus. Centuries prior they had known each other when Mephiston was still known as Calistarius. They were close, in fact. Almost as close as Mephiston is to Rhacelus now.”

He shook his head. “Then…Hades Hive.” 

You winced. Rhacelus’s retellings were all starting to make sudden, painful sense but you refused to speak up. Patience, however, stared at you both in confusion. 

“You mean to say lord Mephiston was…changed?”

“Yes.” Diurniel rumbled. “For seven days and nights he beat back the Rage and the Thirst, casting them from his soul and so became something else. Something haunted. But he was not the only one swallowed up and spat out during that war, oh no. The Harrowing Faith was lost as well with Quirinus onboard. It appeared again decades later.” 

“Lord Mephiston found that vessel.” You pointed out, warily. 

“Indeed. And so he found my mentor as well. By design, the two of them meeting again after so long?”

“It was planned.” You whispered. “By…by…”

“Doombreed.” Diurniel snarled, baring his angel’s teeth. Patience could be heard quietly heaving at the name. 

“He manipulated them both from the start and as soon as Quirinus was returned, he was taken away again. Unable to accept Mephiston’s transfiguration, he fell victim to the very things the chief librarian had all but shed.”

“Is…is that why you’ve been warning us about lord Mephiston all this time?”

“Yes. And many things besides. My anger for him still boils in my chest and if he does not divert from this path he will continue to be the plaything of demons and drag everyone he loves down with him. I refuse to witness this and I refuse to let Patience come to harm.” 

That stirred a renewed anger in the chapel thrall’s heart and they blustered. “I don’t need protecting! I have Incariel and Vigilance and the scholiast! I’m fine! I don’t want to be caught up in this and I don’t want to see my parents skulking in your shadow anymore! Haven’t they suffered enough?”

Not noticing them before, two humans stepped from the shadows cast by Diurniel’s massive kneeling form. Except they weren’t butchered piles of meat anymore. Like their dead master they too were whole and alive. Patience’s mother was dressed almost exactly as her child was now, long hair looping from the hood in tendrils. She was young. Younger than even you and Patience, staring out from under the thick hood with nervous, innocent eyes. Beside her was a thickset man, heavy with muscle in the same way your own father was. Except instead of a shock stave like Mort carried, he was fully armored in carapace, clutching a las rifle to his chest. He shared Patience’s skin and hair, but their eyes were obviously their mother’s. 

“You don’t understand.” The woman whispered, reaching out to Patience but thought better of it. Patience remained rooted to the floor, gaping and glaring. “This involves everyone. None of us can escape what will happen, but we can try. We can try.” 

The man that was Patience’s father nodded, strong faced and bearded. “We can not say what we have seen, but know that we love you, Patience. I know you don’t think much of us because we were never able to be there. You never knew us, and that’s all right. You have become so strong and we are very proud of you.” 

That was what defused Patience’s lambent, defensive anger. That was what caused them to nearly stumble and scream, tears flowing freely. You caught them, baring their weight as they wailed and smothered their face with their sleeves. Trying to stop the tears. Trying to speak. Blubbering and shaking weakly.

Diurniel carefully pulled them from your grip and you let him. His voice was the purr of a lion. “It will all make sense soon. I promise. Trust in yourself and in your friends, but be prepared to weather the storm. Both of you.”

“A-and lord Mephiston?”

Diurniel shook his head. “He is beyond my reach. I am unable to let go of my anger towards him and his role in my mentor’s demise, but my warnings have been given. My purpose is already set in stone, as is his. You know what you will need to do.”

“I guess.” You sighed, unable to argue further. “But what about…”

“The white warrior?” Diurniel seemed to smile then, nudging a finger at the drawing folded under your robes. 

Almost excitedly you unbundled the vellum and opened it up to Patience, who did little else but squint at it. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“His name is Elyusmaldus. His purpose and origins are something that can be understood, but not explained. Have you noticed that my form outside of this room is no longer a manifestation of my death? That was his doing.”

“…the battle in the chapel?”

“Indeed. He ripped the pain away from me. Spilled my blood and viscera across the very chapel I used to preside in and forcefully calmed my riven soul. Same with your parents. Without him we would have continued to wonder the in between as wraiths, unable to feel little else but the agony of our deaths. Without him, I would not be able to be here to speak to you about any of this.”

“So he was…called here somehow? Did you know him from before? Did Mephiston?”

“No one here has ever met him before. He is an entity in of himself. His purposes are deeper, but we were a few of the many souls that needed his help. Like white blood cells drawn to an infection, he heals. You will meet him in due time.”

Patience, finally stilling their sobs, peeled away from Diurniel’s armored chest and reached not for you, but for their parents. They gathered around them, embracing Patience in a way that was utterly denied them in life. There was a brief, sweet moment of jealously until Patience’s mother turned to you, smiled and let you be pulled in along with them. Feeling a mother’s love, untainted by mental illness, was too much and you sobbed along with your friend. 

When you opened your eyes again, you and Patience were standing alone in the cell. There was no Diurniel. No parents. Just you and Patience and a sense of closure you never got to experience before now.

There was still a dread of the future, but for now everything felt all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elyusmaldus, Damos and Bellerion all belong to my friend Kin and full credit is given to her for the usage of the characters. She's also been a huge help in looking over chapters these past few months and will be very likely borrowing more character from her in the future!
> 
> And a huge thank you to my readers as well! I was very happy to see the responses to the last chapter and I'll hopefully be able to produce chapters a bit quicker. Please feel free to leave a comment! <3 Love you all!!
> 
> **Spoiler bits ahead! Please feel free to scroll back up if you want to avoid them!!**
> 
> So, we finally get to see what Antros has truly been up to all this time. I ended up needing to really sit and think about what he could have been doing because all of his sneakiness is...implied in canon. That is, it's all meant to be behind the scenes. Even in the final book City of Light we still don't see him anything directly heretical until the very, very end. What got me was the mention in the epilogue of that book where Mephiston thinks Antros was the one to find the salver I've been directly mentioning for the last few chapters. 
> 
> This is never shown in books however. In fact in Darkness in the Blood he is suspiciously absent. So it got me thinking this poor man's heresy goes a lot deeper than I thought. That is to say, Antros isn't a bad person but Mephiston was heavily enabling him from the start and knew the demon had his hooks in the boy since Blood of Sanguinius. Yet, despite knowing, Mephiston knew he had little proof and couldn't do much about it. But here, I wanted to expand upon what we don't get to directly see save for later on in Revenant Crusade. Even if, technically, it would have started way earlier than that event. 
> 
> As for the book Faust that Antros leaves with Vig...well, Mephistopheles is certainly what Mephiston was named after, but the true pick up from the book is that Antros is, indeed, Faust...and that his ultimate fate reflects that. Not that Vig is aware! X3
> 
> That said, these are all just heavily referenced fan theories that I think touch base with canon material and provide more of a bridge between the gaps. What do you all think?


	24. Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A web of blood and death...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day off of work due a migraine at least let me finally write out a highly planned chapter! This did not go exactly as planned and I had to cut out a lot of canon material, but this precisely how I think the scholiast should see the events of chapters two and three of Revenant Crusade. 
> 
> WARNINGS APPLY character death, blood, gore and a good bit of emotional trauma. Also a very long chapter that might still have a few errors scattered about. I really wanted to get it posted, haha.

Rhacelus felt the first of the tremors just days after returning from Hydrus Ulterior. They started off as subtle, almost muted vibrations beneath the deck. Barely out of sync with the Blood Caller’s churning engines, but gradually they became worse. What would begin as a soft twitch would quickly translate into a palsied moan of metal and stone as something worse took hold. Translations through the warp were never, ever smooth but even the void-born thralls populating the ship eventually started noticing this was different. 

More than that, Rhacelus had the blessing of second sight. He knew it was not the warp, because he could clearly see it as such. No slathering demons scratched at the Gellar field more than usual and the colors of madness that streaked the stars with insanity were no more insane than what was trying to worm its way in just hours ago. And that was before they had dropped out of the warp. The more experienced thralls, that is those who had managed to live through the Invasion all those decades ago, had enough mind to gather around him. They knew more than anyone else on this sacred ship what was and was not unusual. 

This was something they had never seen nor felt before and their detuned panic created an aura about them that Rhacelus could practically taste. He was about to reply to the latest inquiry, but then the ship jerked again. Violently this time. Proximity alarms tolled like stricken bells, and the ugly crimson glow of warning strobes turned the gunmetal deck black. Most of the thralls at his side when down, swamped in steam and oil as a pipe in the bulkhead burst. Gritting his teeth with the effort of keeping upright, Rhacelus locked his boots to the grating and barked an order. One thrall had already stood and was scrambling for an auspex. They barely had it in their hands before the static hazed vox emitters began to blare. All blood thralls and Rhacelus paused, listening keenly despite the ear splitting shrill. 

Xenos spacecraft. His vox became alive with it. 

Rhacelus swore colorfully, the angry blue suffusing his eyes exploded briefly into a trail of cobalt as he moved faster than the average human could see. Blood thralls scurried to keep up, sweeping into a hallway that was rapidly becoming crowded with people and servitors. Palls of smoke filled the corridor, gagging the thralls as a fire lit somewhere behind a terminal and burned out the air scrubbers. Still they marched on after him, keeping a study pace. He was finally forced to slow as another tremor took hold, dropping him to one knee in a puddle of oil. Growling, he looked down at one of the thralls as they approached him, tapping furiously at the auspex. What they had to tell him made him pause. 

Then he stood, scrubbing oil from his burnished sapphire armor and glaring into the gloom. The auspex only worsened his glare until the thralls, strong people all, were beginning to cower. Ignoring them, Rhacelus pulled steel and looked ahead, down the corridor, at something only he could see. Watching the ancient force weapon warily, the thrall attempted to speak again, but the epistolary ordered them off. They did so after a brief but futile argument and then he was alone. His grip on Lucensis, the sword wrought for him and him only, tightened as the rubies throbbed along its length. The wound on his hand, self inflicted, healed sluggishly. 

“Are you there?” Rhacelus intoned into the dark, as all living beings, lobotomized or not, rapidly filed out of the now compromised corridor. He paused, as if sniffing the air. “I’m going to find the scholiast.” 

He continued on at a furious pace, now changing direction down a T-junction and through a locked hatch only an Astartes was able to wrench open with ease. Frustrated, he tried to contact Antros through the vox but found the boy out of range and the all the rest of the channels were filled with battle chatter and static. Switching it off, he weaved down a gantry towards the Reclusium, a vague hope in his mind that he might be able to find Vigilance as well as the chief librarian’s lover. The restorationist had been suspiciously missing the last few days but his ability to sought her out came secondary to Mephiston’s…

He shook his head, picking up speed. His old friend’s frustration has lead him to lock himself up in the hull of the ship. The blindness was not cured. The ork weird boy, Brightskull himself apparently, had effectively upheaved a whole planet with its insanity, but it was not the immediate answer Mephiston had been seeking. In fact the chief librarian’s realization of this drew him so close to the edge that Rhacelus almost feared losing him then and there. In front of the cowering Magos Calx no less. They quit the battle shortly there after, and Rhacelus only had an hour or so sympathize with the terrified Magos and send for further aide. 

He heard nothing from Mephiston since then, but he could still feel his old friend. Barely. The shade was a glimmering, ember shrouded phantom brushing the edge of his mind but he was there. He could feel Mephiston trailing behind him like a shadowy cape as Rhacelus finally plunged down into Reclusium and found whom he was looking for…

———

Lord Rhacelus startled both you and Patience worse than any of the tremors had. Or the blaring klaxons for that matter. After reconciling with their parents, Patience was in an understandably delicate state and in light of your friendship you’d stayed with them. Incariel returned just hours later, stinking of ork and rime, but he was frustrated and confused. He spared you the details of the battle but reported that your master was away, huddling below the ship for reasons he could not guess. Repeated requests to see him went rebuffed by Rhacelus and Antros both. Vidiens had gone with Mephiston so not even the servitor could be conned into giving up information. 

And still Vigilance was nowhere to be found. The time up until now provided to be riven with aggravation to the point where Rhacelus had actually interrupted an argument between you and Patience. 

“Scholiast, you need to come with me. Now.” 

Patience, scared and exasperated, held onto your arm with surprising strength. “I’m going with you!”

“No.” Rhacelus intervened. “Go and find Incariel. Protect the chapel.”

Another tremor threw you and Patience to the floor, landing in a painful heap. Rhacelus reached down and separated you both. “I don’t have time to argue. Do your duties.”

Eyes laced with tears, Patience grit their teeth and obeyed, collecting their robes and sprinting down the nave. This area of the ship was deep enough to be well protected from damage occurring on the outside of the ship, but the last one felt like it was inside. Further down. Rhacelus gave you no more words, grasping your wrist and directing you down towards the hull. 

By then the xenos were out of you mind, and so was Patience, because another sound other than the boom of the ship was becoming prevalent. Screams. Not…human ones, you were sure of that, but skin-prickling wails that stretched on for unnatural lengths of time. Constantly overlaid by the hoarser roars of space marines and…other things besides. The sound immediately set you on edge, inducing near panic as Rhacelus finally stopped before a gilded door and glared into the shadows. 

He was reaching for a crystal vial at his belt as he glanced at you, his expression tighter than usual. “You’re not going to like what you might see, scholiast.”

Already angry, you had the mind to glare. “Any less than what I’ve been seeing and hearing so far?” 

Either confused, or amused, Rhacelus shook his head, tore the vial from its loop and strode forward. The door was a gleaming knot of complex designs you could only barely read, but the epistolary seemed to take it all in at a glance, smearing the dark liquid from the vial. Blood you realized, and inscribed a IX onto its surface. It split open along an unseen seam and rattled aside. 

Immediately your anger became fear once more as the smell of blood finally reached you, gagging you with its copper infused fugue. Still you did not stray from Rhacelus’s side even as the cobalt clad warrior stepped through, scattering shadows that behaved in the way they did when your master was lost in thought. Suddenly, it all started to make sense. 

“…he’s finally losing himself, ins’t he?” You whispered to Rhacelus through the metallic sting in your mouth. “He’s behind that door isn’t he?”

“…yes. I can feel his shade. It’s…” He let out a breath. He was visibly struggling against the profuse scent, streaks of hungry red poisoning the warp-deep cobalt of his eyes. “We don’t have the advantage of the chemic spheres here, scholiast. We need to pull him back ourselves.” 

So this was what everyone had been warning you about. Diurniel, Vigilance, and even Rhacelus all uttered those fearful portents to you in some manner. This is what Antros was trying so hard to prevent to the point he was willing to be dishonest about his motives. All this time Mephiston told you of going mad, you were still not prepared for this. Yet you had to be. Just from the sounds, from the smells alone, you knew what you going to see could very well change your thoughts of the chief librarian. For a moment you actually paused, staring wide-eyed in the middle distance as Rhacelus conversed with the only other space marine there. 

Servatus and Rhacelus’s conversation seemed strangely…strangled. As if heard through water clogged ears. Faintly, you realized it was the blood pulsing through your head. Even as numb as you were, you began to feel…drawn in somehow. Was your lover calling to you beyond the second door? You barely noticed as Servatus shouldered open the hatch and then went clattering past you in a hurry. Beneath the symphony of agony heard beyond, you knew he was there. Heard as a deep, almost liminal call burrowing into your soul. 

“Master…” You whimpered, startling Rhacelus as you suddenly started moving again, staying just a step behind him. “I’m here!”

The epistolary’s calls of warning went unheard as he spoke Mephiston’s name, then there was a sudden, physical pressure in your skull. The air grew heavy and warm, moist with blood and gore until breathing became nearly optional. Blind to the horror still nesting in your guts, you scurried at the very edge of the light thrown off by Lucensis. Soon though the clarion call your master seemed to be projecting to you and you only became too much, crying out as you bulled your way forward into the dark. Heavy, wet threads dragged at your robes, streaking them with offal and fluids as you rushed under them. Corpses you could not clearly identify and did not care to swung in the shivering web like flies caught by a spider. One in particular was that of a woman, barely out of girlhood. But she was not human. 

Fairy wings and other fanciful mutations twisted her body into shapes only seen in children’s tales. As if she dreamed of becoming her favorite story and so she had. Disgusted, you shouldered past her twitching, dead form and plowed on through worse things besides. 

Rhacelus was still trying to call you, but the sound of his voice was swallowed. Screams that you took to be from your master swelled in response to your own, until it was a swarm of madness and hate. Ghosts. These had to be the ghosts he spoke of. You could not see them, but you could hear them over your own desperate attempts at speaking. 

By then the grip of the threads became so strong you were forced to pull them from your robes like sodden, sticky vines. The grotesqueness of it was lost in your battle to be free, the howling becoming a reflection of your anger until the threads began to unravel and snap. Leaving pieces of pale, blood pinked flesh behind for you to pick at and cringe. 

“Skin…?”

For a moment you stumbled around in dumb confusion until the hot gleam of metal and exposed viscera caught your eye.

Somewhere, in the numbed reaches of your stricken mind, you recalled an anthology of ancient scripture that had long ago been considered heretical, taken down when the Emperor first straddled the Earth with his strength and creed. Knowing this, you had laughed a little to yourself reading the scattered remains and marveling at how long this old religion had lasted. What had really made you giggle were the descriptions of their own angels. Beings wreathed in flames and wings, golden rings rimmed with eyes and spilling out red light that blinded mortals. Many faced and dedicated only to obeying their god, to you they had seemed little better than demons. 

But now…you saw a little of the truth. Mephiston was indeed a true angel if this was the case. Totally divested of skin, your master’s terrifying lack of mass and anything remotely human made him look as if he had shed his mortal coil entirely to give in to his Sanguinius given powers. A horror worse than the horrors he hunted. It was divine and put all of the fears of the last few months back into your skull with such speed you went to your knees in worship, vomiting clear, stringy mucus onto the already sodden floor. 

Litanies spilled from your gummy, soured mouth as Rhacelus finally caught up with you, staring in bleak surprise. Mephiston was indeed laid bare, all gleaming muscle and wet, wet organs held together by sheer will. The web of gore and bodies Mephiston had spent months weaving was spun from this missing skin, coming together behind his fleshless figure as two vast, quivering wings pinned to a brass commander chair at the top of the dais you knelt in front of. For a while your master did nothing, muttering and gurgling as his naked fingers scratched at the salver held before him by Vidiens. 

“Vigilance’s cartography was correct.” He said, suddenly, stunning Rhacelus into further silence. “You and Vigilance were correct.”

You knew now he was speaking directly to you, through the muscles of his lips. Then the howls swelled again, filling your ears with the sound even if your eyes could not see their source. Behind you, the epistolary barked and swung his sword at these unseen assailants, ghosts only those blessed with warp sight could see. You ignored him, feeling the tightness of you bond with Mephiston pulling at you almost painfully. The idea of running did not even occur, lost in some fever of love and worship as you looked at your master and held out your arms. 

It was undoubtedly him. The way his tendon-bared fingers brushed a streak of his own blood across your cheek proved it and your eyes went hot with tears, stinging in the metallic mist. 

“Come back to us.” You spoke the words so quietly they were barely audible. Yet they carried weight. Mephiston’s striated features twitched and shifted as his exposed muscles struggled to form a coherent expression. Then he stood, ripped the knifes from his thighs and wings and let out an exhortation that birthed light and fire. 

Shades went scattering from Rhacelus’s sword as you ducked and watched Mephiston stride down the dais bathed in flame. As he reached into the seething gloom he plucked from it a single figure. A young guardsman, fatally wounded, blinking through death-pale eyes. But even that bloody exchange lost your interest as you remembered what Mephiston had been writing on. With a hiss, you wretched the brass salver closer to you, gazing at the nauseating swirl of sigils and lines that formed complex designs. Married to the cartography you and Vigilance had originally created. In fact it paled in comparison to what Mephiston had done with it now. What had been the serpent design you had so feared was transfigured into something told in Old Terran mythology. Locked in its death throes as a sword baring angel slew it among a host of his brothers, all with weapons raised in tribute. Even so disgustingly divorced from your fears bile still rose in your throat and you vomited again for a second time, shoving both Vidiens and the salver out of the way. 

Unbidden, a wave of joy came with the second bought of nausea, grinning. “You’ve nearly finished, master!”

Despite the swarm of souls hounding his naked form, Mephiston heard you. Saw the pained joy in your face and returned to your side, kneeling to further inspect the salver while Rhacelus followed. 

All you could do was gaze up at the towering, monstrous anatomy on display before you, knowing it was Mephiston but the slowly returning clarity struggled to make sense of it all. Slowly, the joy faded and the fear you should have been feeling returned. You would have regurgitated again, but there was nothing left in your belly. Instead you felt pain. A headache that pierced behind your eyes and birthed stars at the edge of your vision. You were so focused on Mephiston that everything in the background had faded away until now. The ship still shook, stronger this time, and Rhacelus was pleading with a voice that broke your heart. 

Hunched over and breathing shallowly, you could do little else but repeat what Rhacelus was saying even if your mouth made no noise by now. Dry and brittle, you held onto the memory of joy just moments ago. You refused to deny what was happening any longer. Between Vidien’s hectoring tone and Mephiston revealed, something in you…snapped.

Hissing like a viper, you shot up and out, grabbing Vidien’s by one chubby, infantile leg and yanked. The salver went clattering from its grip as you bore the servitor to the ground, intent on slapping a hand over its mouth. “Stop!!”

Before either your master and Rhacelus could speak, you continued. “You have to stop this! Look at you! Look at…at all of this! Is this the man I fell in love with? Is this what he’s capable of creating?”

Something close to outraged bathed the chief librarian’s face, but the pause was enough. 

“Calistarius…” Rhacelus repeated the name twice more. It was like a balm, soothing an ugly red welt. The light spilling from the chief librarian’s body faded. 

“Stop?” Mephiston gurgled. “We are almost there. I am so close.” His nails scrapped across the salver, pulling blood across an ugly confluence of scratches that confused the whole design. “While I am still blind?”

He stood again, gripping the salver. “If the scholiast and Vigilance had not finished the cartography I never would have been able to find a starting point. Hydrus Ulterior was not the answer but I’m so sure I have it now. Stop, Rhacelus? We have to remove the source of my blindness or we will never find the demon.”

“The ship.” You gasped, weathering another tremor that had everything to do with the xenos. “Patience…Vigilance has been missing. Please!”

“They’re right, my lord. We’ve translated back into the warp, dangerously off course deep in the Revenant Stars. The Necrons attacked almost immediately, I…”

But he was silenced. By then Vidiens had fought free, having battered you almost bloody. It went flying from your grasp, hurrying to obey a command. In the silence that followed, Rhacelus came up to you, concern and anger both creasing his ancient countenance. 

“We’re not getting through to him.” You whispered, shaking off the soreness. “Am I…failing?”

“You are not.” Mephiston answered for him, reading from a collection of volumes Vidiens presented him with. “Rather, the opposite. I remember…little of the last week, but I remember you. Even with my soul lost to the storm all I had to do to find my way again was look. You and Rhacelus both.” He shook his head, baring angel’s teeth as long and sharp as ivory daggers, all the more visible for his lack of skin. His hand slapped bloodily across a particular design on the salver. “And thanks to your efforts, I have an answer. My blindness is here. On Morsus…”

He turned to you then, expression unreadable but voice soft. An echo of the man he had been. “Go. You’ll be safest with Patience. Find Vigilance.”

You broke away at a run. Almost violently so. Rhacelus’s figure went by in a blur and the bloody forest parted to make way for your headlong flight. 

———

It wasn’t until you emerged into the chapel that you saw just how badly the battle outside had progressed. What was once soaring colonnades polished to a mirror sheen were rendered matte and blasted, not from fire but by a poisonous green glow that seemed to wear them down atoms by atom. Palls of choking smoke blocked your vision and forced you to breath through your sleeves, but you could hear more than well enough. Twice you’d stumbled over a corpse that was half disintegrated into an ashen mess, bones cleanly exposed under flesh gone to dust. It looked almost sterile compared to the gore of the web, but it was somehow worse. 

For a while you saw nothing, the din punctuated by the distinct heavy thud of bolter rounds punching into metal. Despite the emergency lumes that still clung to life, it was dark and chaotic. Shadows were thrown by things you could not see and stabs of green gauss fire knifed the air above your head. Somehow you were relatively safe, having looped in through the back way and avoided the nave where most of the fighting was concentrated. Even so the backwash of heat and the ping of shrapnel reached you even here, forcing you to continue moving. Weaving in and out of reliquaries, calling out to Patience. To Incariel. Anyone. 

Then you saw them. Tall, skeletal figures forged entirely out of metal and corpse light stamped forward with mechanical precision. Necrons. You knew them like you did the orks, only from pages of tomes you scoffed in disgust when reading. More than anything you would rather be in those pages than here. Gasping and violently reversing direction until they were no longer in sight. But then you stumbled into something. Or someone. 

Vigilance growled and pulled you off the floor with augmented strength. You almost cried when you saw it was her, but words became smothered as she hunched over and ran. 

“Move!” She barked, jigging away into another bank of dust thrown up in the fury. A Necron warrior went stomping after her, but she weaved so well the sickening green beams passed uselessly to either side, atomizing the decking and collapsing a whole section inwards. As you screamed and fought to get free from her grip, you both stumbled and held on as the deck tried to take you with it. 

“I’ve found them!” Someone roared into the gloom, a hand shooting out of the storm to grab the back of your robe. Instinctively you let go of the desk, sparing your naked fingers as you were lifted and thrown from the hole. Followed shortly by Vigilance who landed on her feet beside you. Finally able to see something other than blood and dust, you looked up. 

“Vig!” 

“No time!” Again, she was dragging you away. “Damos will buy us some, but we need to find Patience!”

“I can’t see! Where are we?” You struggled to keep up. 

Good question. You smacked into the woman as she halted suddenly, trying to get her barring. 

“Fucking shit.” Was the only thing she said, seconds before you were moving again. “I have no idea. Agorix found me skulking around in the bottom decks and then the Necrons…damn it, no time! Listen, I’m sorry about the map. I really am. A lot of shit happened, but I’ll have to explain that later. Please tell me you know where Patience is!”

“Rh-Rhacelus told them to go find Incariel!”

Vigilance paused again, but only briefly. A sudden heat haze blew the smoke away long enough for you to spot sable armor crashing through a huddle of metallic figures, roaring with enough throat tearing fury it prickled your skin. “…found him.”

Vigilance almost laughed. “Patience won’t be there. Come on.”

“This way!” Another voice called out, obviously male and obviously Astartes. Bellerion soon crowded your vision, a white clad paragon emerging from the night. “Incariel trying to fight them away from the residential hall. Patience is likely there, but it’s not safe. Come with me.”

Neither you nor Vigilance replied, focused on keeping your eyes locked on his ducking form. Whenever Bellerion paused, the woman would drag herself and you to the floor. And for good reason. Every time the sanguinary priest fired his bolter the sound was a crash of noise inside your skull, deafening and painful. Thrice you cried out as hot tips of shrapnel tore at your robes, but you and Vigilance were relatively unharmed, if outwardly terrified. 

Soon though, something…bigger came closer. Its footsteps were like a pile driver slamming into steel, slow and exact. Lesser warriors all around seemed to back away, temporarily giving the priest some breathing room until he saw what had arrived. 

Immediately reversing direction, you and Vigilance lost sight of Bellerion as a pronged leg as big as a tree trunk swept up and around, knocking him into the air. You screamed only once and then bolted, clutching Vigilance’s hand. 

Soon the egress leading into the hall became visible. Whatever had arrived and bashed Bellerion aside went past here first, if the stab marks in the marble were any indication. Flattening you against the wall, Vigilance stared into the fumes, trying to find someone. Anyone. The hall remained dark and unoccupied but even so you progressed slowly, shaking and walking toes first as if the floor was fit to swallow you. 

A sobbing Patience reached out and physically pulled you into one of the opened chambers. They tried to pull Vigilance inside as well, but the woman gently untangled their fingers from her skirts. Kissed both you and and Patience on the forehead, smiled, then she ran. 

———

More of them were coming. Once the spider like mechaniod arrived the seemingly singled minded things suddenly moved with a lot more motivation. As if it were somehow a command throne directing ships in battle. Vigilance did not care. She went flying from the hall, leaving the scholiast and Patience behind. It was a choice all her own. No one could censor her when she was saving lives. Even as she watched Patience and the scholiast slam and lock the door behind them, more of the undead things marched in the wake of their commander. If they got into the hall, no amount of metal would keep them away from her friends. 

But she could buy them time. Get the damned metallic clankers away long enough for Agorix squad to take care of the biggest clanker. Seemed logical enough. Her augments kept her limbs good and strong. She could run for hours if she needed to, but not all of her was metal. Her hips burned with the strain, her eyes stung with tears and her all too organic heart felt as if it would burst. Still, Vigilance ran and immediately met a small skirmish of the things the moment she was out of the hall. Registering her as a target straight away, they redirected and swung the barrels of their gauss rifles in her direction. By then she was already ducking and rolling into the first of the sacristy’s doors. The room beyond was pitch black, her feet scrapping over old relics until she reached the door on the other side and escaped, circumventing the Necrons marching in behind her. 

It bought her a few snatches of time, grinning as she wheeled away toward the left aisle. The guess beam, when it hit her, was expected. The straightaway was the perfect shot and she put herself in its way on purpose. It hurt, but less than it might have were she completely flesh. Ice flared up her spine, exposed to the air in rivets of gleaming, blood pinked steel as she grinned harder through the agony and kept running. The second beam took her leg out and she didn’t even feel it save for the sharp stab of neural feedback racing up her hip. Cursing and laughing all in the same breath, the woman angrily hopped away until her weight pitched her to the floor. And then she crawled, hand over hand, still screaming and cursing. Vigilance was no longer laughing. Her vision blurred and her chest became cold and heavy. She went still.

As hearing began to fail, implants sparking light across her skull, she spotting Damos as he roared and lunched over her body, a fury made manifest. His was not the only white armored warrior, however. Standing impossibly calm beside her was another. Totally silent and out of place, he knelt down and held out a hand to her. It all made sense. Vigilance knew who he was because he wanted her to. When her hand touched his, the cold agony was taken away and she left this life behind. 

———

Bellerion peeled himself off the fractured column with a snarl, feeling blood oozing across his tongue. Hunger sprang in its wake, refreshing and sharp. He allowed it to breath life into his broken bones, aching as they knitted back together. The Necron lord’s war machine had already moved on, picking its way towards Servatus and the remnants of Agorix squad all the way across the nave. Gingerly he got to his feet, tested the integrity of his snapped femur and judged it well enough to walk on. Between the blood hunger and the cooling kiss of pain blockers, he grinned tightly and stomped away from the battle damage. 

The underside of the lord’s carriage was a mess of spooled wire and cabling that feed into the legs, great pistons snapping and hissing as it walked. He had the advantage. If he could get in behind it and put a rent in the things belly, he might just upend it long enough for Servatus to take it out. 

That is, until he heard something. Damos. His mentor wasn’t there when he came to but that was to be expected. The thralls and Vigilance must have continued on until Damos could pick up where he left off, but the volume and ferocity of that roar… 

Bellerion winced and broke into a dead sprint, popping off rounds that were meant to distract rather than kill. Sometimes punching them aside in a far cruder manner just to speed his way along. He got there too late. The scent of her blood hit him first and then the sight of it spilt in heavy splashes on the black tile floor. He need only follow. 

“My lord…” He murmured, trying to get Damos’s attention. The senior priest was hunched over Vigilance’s bled form, shaking and growling. For a anxious moment Bellerion ducked to the side, fearing his mentor might have partaken in her blood but his unhelmed face was clean and twisted in fury. 

“Damos!” He cried out, but the other had already launched into the air from his four pronged stance. More than a little wary, the younger sanguinary priest watched as Damos yanked his chain sword free in mid air, landing with it revving in the head of a neuron warrior. He was lost, angel’s teeth at their full length and eyes blazing with threads of crimson. He was not in the grip of the Thirst or the Rage, at least not entirely. Bellerion knew what that sounded like. This was a righteous, vengeful anger and as he looked down he knew why.

Vigilance’s blood formed a halo around her head, coloring her hair crimson and making her face seem all the paler. In way she was almost like Sanguinus, softer and female and so very frail. Wincing, Bellerion closed her dead eyes and gingerly lifted the woman from the floor. She deserved better. Damos was carving through so many of the Necrons he doubted he would need help, but the younger of the two kept his hand to his pistol regardless. Backing away into the gloom. The battle was concluding, but he knew a crusade was just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. I've been hinting at and planning this chapter for a long while. Were some of you able to guess what would happen? Might have a bit less impact than I wanted but I'm pleased with the length and perspective we get to have here. Plus Vigilance's death was something I had going months in advanced. I had also wanted to add one more scene at the end of this chapter, but I've decided to save that for the next one.
> 
> As usual HUGE thank you to my readers, to Lucreace and my friend Kin who owns and has let me use her characters. They are Damos, Bellerion and Elysmaldus who was finally name dropped in the last chapter!
> 
> No worries though, Vigilance will be in a wee spin-off series. ;) 
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts!


	25. Blood and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurtling on towards Morsus, you struggle with memory loss and processing grief as the Blood Angels wage war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit of a struggle to write I admit, coming in on the heels of the emotional blow that was its predecessor. Focuses less of the scholiast and Patience and more on setting up canon characters we otherwise don't see much of in the books, and establishing Damos and Bellerion as additional main characters for the remainder of the fic. This chapter ALSO runs a direct parallel to the first chapter of Asphodel! Go check it out! :D
> 
> Warnings as usual for blood, gore, emotional trauma and death. Big warning for PTSD. It's officially mentioned in the chapter and applied here with hopefully very careful research. More will be developed with it as I go along, but the scholiast is suffering from the memory loss associated with it. With with Patience!
> 
> Additional thank yous and credits will be listed at the end of the fic.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Bellerion continued to back away into the shadows, fangs gritting against the smell of Vigilance’s blood. To distract himself, he kept his eyes locked on the blurring image of Damos as he roared and raged, lashing out with his chain sword in long, savage cuts reminiscent of Sanguinius’s own marshal skill. The feral majesty of it gave him enough focus to withdraw his own weapon, plugging pinpoint shots into the necks and faces of two approaching Necrons. Surprisingly he was largely left alone, the battle having reached its apex when the Necron lord straddling the mechanical spider went down, plunging into a hole blown through the floor by Servatus’s heroic efforts. By then the remnants of Lupum and Agorix squads were trotting back towards the apse, reloading boltguns and shaking shredded circuitry from chain and power swords. They all looked uninjured enough in the initial visual sweep Bellerion managed to do of his squad mates, but then he, as well as they, paused. Staring at Damos who had not stopped fighting ghosts.

In fact he seemed to be charging in circles, licking out with his weapon to bisect warriors that were already down. Several had attempted to reform, the sound a stuttering screech of tormented iron, but Damos was moving so fast and viciously that he was very literally pulling their separated parts apart with his bare hands. Servatus joined Berllerion a moment later, warily drawn to both his brothers and the strained howling of the senior apothecary. 

Bellerion cursed. Damos was losing himself. He looked down at Vigilance’s dead face, winced, and stamped towards the crumbled altar. Pulling a sheet of damask from the wall behind the apse, he wrapped her body and carefully put it across the stone. By then Damos’s sibilant roar had reached a pitch that was just a hair away from wailing. If he did not get to his mentor soon he might need to sedate him, a thought he refused to entertain as he forced his sore legs to trot. Agorix was already starting to approach Damos, but Bellerion clapped him on the pauldron. They did not know one another well, but the concerned look writ across Agorix’s scarred visage told him enough. Bellerion gently shook his head. A moment later there was chopping battle cant from the sergeant. Young Primaris Blood Angels lowered weapons and backed away, forming a halo of ceramite around their raging brother. 

“My lord!” Bellerion called out once, twice, and then punctuated his call with Damos’s name. 

The addressee finally stopped but continued to slowly shove his fingers into a flickering metallic skull at his feet. The thing was attempting to reform, its body twitching spastically a few meters to the left but Damos was forcing it to endure the electric agony of having its head methodically crushed and broken open. Damo’s eyes now slowly swept across the broken nave, as red as blood, as if seeking targets from the ring of other Blood Angels who surrounded him. 

“My lord!” He called once again, daring to step closer. 

At last the senior apothecary turned towards him, face and neck ruddy with erythema and tension. Teeth strained and cracked from the pressure exerted by his jaws. He was at such a far gone state that Bellerion was beginning to fear he was falling to the Rage, but that wasn’t the case. Behind him Servatus watched warily, a hand straying toward his gun but calming once he realize what Bellerion did next.

“Bellerion…” Damos snarled, barely there. “Bloooood…”

What the younger Blood Angel had taken to be mad ranting at first, turned out to be an order. Eyes brightening, Bellerion pulled off his helm and then his gauntlet, letting his naked palm slash across the diamond sharp edge of his bone saw. 

Both the sound of sliced skin and the scent of fresh Astartes blood brought clarity to the other man’s eyes and he stood, abandoning the Necron’s body. Forcing himself to stay still, Bellerion allowed Damos to rush forth and painfully nip and lap at the wound until the tension in his face began to fade. 

“Are you sanguine, brother?” Whispered the younger. 

“I am…” The older swallowed and licked blood from his lips. “I am sanguine.”

Bellerion visibly slumped. “I thought I had lost you.”

For a moment his mentor still seemed nebulous, staring off into the middle distance beyond his apprentice’s shoulder. Beyond Servatus who by now had turned away and was looking at the same thing Damos was. “…Vigilance…”

“She’s gone.” 

“Damn it…” His mentor snarled, distracted by lingering hunger and grief. “I liked the bitch.”

“I know.” 

Damos smeared a blood-wet gauntlet across his face, apparently unaware it wasn’t clean. “The other humans?”

“The thralls?” Bellerion stiffened. “I’m not sure.”

Damos cursed. “Go find them. I need to find lord Mephiston.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, my lord. You nearly lost yourself. You did lose yourself, actually. If I hadn’t called you back…”

“I’m sanguine, boy. I told you that. And you’re wounded.”

“I’m not a boy, Damos.”

He’d said the words so sharply that his mentor’s brow puckered with insult, stepping forward. Before he’d gotten three feet, he was reeling back from the force of Bellerion’s sudden, open handed slap. Between the depth of the gash and those fangs suckling at the wound, the younger’s hand had not quite healed yet, turning Damos’s face into a mask of blood splattered bronze. Agorix squad all looked at them in the same state of shock, bolters clicking on pure reflex. Servatus had abandoned his investigation of Vigilance’s body and stood, either amused or fixing to break up a suspected fight. 

Bellerion was frozen in place, apparently as shocked by his actions as Damos. Something close to an apology started to form, but the junior sanguinary priest kept his jaws clenched. Eventually, Damos startled them all with the volume of his laugh. 

Gingerly resetting his badly broken nose, the senior sanguinary priest shouldered past Bellerion, stamping towards Servatus. “Go! Before I change my mind!”

Bellerion did so, speeding through the nave towards the shattered narthex. By then sergeant Agorix had taken muster and was waving his squad through, following Bellerion. He was secretly amused. The junior apothecary was still young as the old breed went, but it was obvious who was the more fitting of the two to accompany the squad on Morsus. 

Damos’s laugh simmered down into a broken titter, snorting up a thick clot of blood he willingly spat onto the shattered black tiles. “Little shit.”

“Him, or the woman?” Servatus asked, pulling off his helm. The lieutenant was a handsome man as all Blood Angels were, dark of hair and eyebrow, but bright in the eyes and face. Not Baalite, but Sanguinius’s features had clearly imposed themselves on his Terran lineage overtime. 

“Both.” Grunted Damos, striding up to the altar where her body had been laid. 

Servatus looked at her a moment then gestured. “Agorix mentioned she was found in the lower decks and aggressively insisted on coming with him. He tried to order otherwise, but she was…stubborn.” 

“Very.” 

“…was she important? Should I report this to lord Mephiston?”

Damos paused, fingers hovering just centimeters away from her bloodless face. “I…I can’t say.”

“You can’t say, or you don’t know? Be perspicuous, sanguinary priest.” 

For a moment Servatus thought Damos might have caught the scent of blood again, the corners of his steel blue eyes set twitching…but instead he only looked annoyed. “I don’t know, lieutenant. I’ll take care of her. Report her if you want, but there’s two other thralls currently missing. I need to find them.”

Servatus took that as an undisguised order to leave. Technically, he outranked Damos by quite a margin, but this was a matter of sheer seniority that Servatus willingly respected. He clapped a fist against his chest plate and turned towards him. He handed the ruined altar cloth to Damos and clattered down the broken steps. Only then did Damos realize his face was smeared with blood, seeing it drip liberally onto the formerly cream colored cloth. Cursing, he cleaned his hands and face and went to find the two surviving thralls. 

The residential hall was but a short jog from the apse and not far at all from where he’d found Vigilance. Her blood still stained the floor there, but Damos completely ignored it, hoping to reach the egress in short order. Were he not a veteran of the Deathwatch, he might have missed the telltale hiss-clack of a guess rifle charging. Barking in irritation, he inhaled sharply and rolled hard to the left, grunted as the heat-haze washed across his helm and left flank, peeling away the paint and stripping off a layer of ceramite. 

The cloister. Above him. Still in a tight roll, Damos grabbed hold of his bolt pistol and snapped off two rounds. They were not aimed, but he still heard the satisfying screech of rending metal as at least one found their mark. The second beam missed him by a wide margin, finally allowing him to stop and skid to his feet, fangs bared. 

He was right. There was a cluster of Necrons crowding the cloister above the egress, presenting their rifles at regular intervals over the banister. Damos roared at them in challenge, goading them into more scattered shots as they rushed to compensate for his sudden footwork. He was almost laughably fast when it came to actively dodging live fire from above. A skill he'd learned in order to deal with orks when trapped in kill cages one too many times. If he didn’t keep moving at speed he was going to be nailed, and it indeed it would take only one shot to put him down. 

But another shot never landed. He kept running, Lyman’s ear straining to listen but nothing came. And then there was the thunder of silver booming against material far, far weaker. His hand was once again holding his bolt pistol, aimed fresh at the cloister above him but was met with two shapes. One black and one white, both Astartes. The black figure was a broken open hollow billowing with icy mist and the other was of untold antiquity, glowing faintly in the poor lighting of the chapel. At their feet were the remains of the Necrons, all of whom had gone dark. Even the pieces whole enough to try and crawl back together did not move. 

The black Astartes, a chaplain Damos realized, motioned for the residential hall as the white one looked out ahead. Then both turned towards the wall behind them…and simply walked through it as if the metal and stucco wasn’t there. Unnerved but thankful, Damos shook his head and pounded back towards the egress. 

———

Was this all a dream? Your ears rang with the echoing reports of boltguns as the sound found their way into the hall. Patience had long since ran dry of tears, sobbing but no longer dampening your sleeve. Something happened between now and when Vigilance left you. Somehow you felt as if your mind had slipped free from its mooring and was sent orbiting your own head in a nauseating dance. The effect was disorienting not to mention worrying. You would have cared, but your emotions were oddly detached as well. 

Truly it was as if you merely watched yourself on a pict feed as an Astartes you barely recognized as Damos snapped the hatch open and attempted to take your measure. Somehow you were able to speak even if you felt you were replying through someone else’s throat. His questions blurred at the back of you mind and your answers might as well have come from the same nebulous place. Patience began to shout as they were pulled from the chamber and out into the chapel proper. 

The place was utterly ruined. A gaping hole was punctured through the floor, no longer hosting expensive, handwoven rugs or fine marbled tiles. Gold lined stucco walls were burned away and awash with soot, exposing the bare metal bulkheads beneath. The only decorations that adorned these walls now were the rare tides of blood that splashed across its surface. You took in these details as if observing a mere painting, unable to react even as Patience wailed louder to the point where even Damos was fighting to keep them still. 

There was no one else in the chapel with you three except a handful of medicae thralls as they started to arrive, gingerly picking their way through the rubble of fallen stone columns or the bodies of dismembered statuary. One immediately ran up to you and Patience, but Damos waved them off. Fire teams came in afterwords, dousing flames and sucking away toxic fumes, tossing the chapel into shadow and bloody, flickering light as the emergency finally lumes snapped on.

His voice was in your head again, giving you directions as if he were navigating a ship through a storm. You muttered, annoyed and confused, but it was starting to work. Details no longer seemed to smudge and become lost the moment you looked away. Slowly, like a fish on a hook, your mind was drawn back into your pounding skull. You were in pain. A good bit of it, but the confusion and detachment was worse. 

“Can you hear me, scholiast?” Damos was begging. 

Now able to see his face clearly for what felt like the first time, you rubbed your aching eyes and asked. “Can I?”

He sighed, gently pulling your robes back and poked at your flesh. You were found to have several small burns and cuts but not anything he judged major. Suddenly you were aware of Patience as an actual presence again, but only because they had stopped screaming. Instead there were huddled off to your left, shaking and hiding their face. 

You touched them, confused and apparently unable to guess why they might be reacting that way. When you tried to remember what happened after…after your master’s bloody, skinless countenance, you found you could barely recall anything. 

Scenes were there, playing in snippets that gradually grew worse in quality the more you tried to think about them. Conversations were lost completely, seeing mouths moving without speaking. Vigilance especially was rendered in unclear detail as if crudely stylized by an unskilled painter. Realizing this brought on a slow, lambent panic. You knew you were supposed to remember, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. And so your mind became stuck on the one scene you did remember. Mephiston, your lover, skinless and swallowed in golden flame. The image was horrific but you could actually recall how you felt and what he had said. You remembered falling to your knees in worship, regurgitating from the sheer power of his image. Perhaps, in another life, this would have disturbed you, but in this one you felt as if this was your everything. Every vague memory had led up to that moment. The lost conflict with Antros, Vigilance’s mystery, everything. It centered around the living jewel of red and gold standing upon that stone dais as if he was Sanguinius Arisen…

———

Emerging from a rain of debris like a ship breaching the atmosphere, Bellerion forced in a breath and cursed himself for not cramming his helmet back on sooner. He did so now single handedly, swatting beetle sized chunks of stucco and plaster from his hair with the other. At some point the binding keeping his bun in place had snapped and the locks ran free, strewn with grit that itched his scalp when he finally managed to replace his helm. 

More than slightly annoyed, the sanguinary priest then focused on getting his gauntlet back on when a fan of blood red startled him into stillness. What he had thought was a great crimson wing turned out to be a vast cloak swept about by the sheer velocity of the wearer. For a moment Bellerion was sure Mephiston had finally joined the battle but in the next second he caught sight of sable armor and realized it was Incariel. 

The chaplain’s string of enraged litanies had died down, but he was not silent. The violence of his croxius said enough, performing complicated arcs and slashes as if the heavy mace were a sword. Not to mention temporarily handling his bolt rifle one handed as if it were but a pistol. For anyone who was not Primaris, either weapon would have required two hands to be used properly. Incariel did all of this at full sprint. 

Suddenly, Bellerion felt himself quashing a pang of indignity as he grunted and followed after the chaplain at running speed. This was a bit difficult. While his legs had finally stopped hurting, his armor was still compromised in a few key places and would require field patching to be fully operational. Normally this only slowed him by mere fractions of a second, but Incariel was moving so fast even the slightest delay in his armor’s response time put him a pace or two behind.   
He caught up only because Incariel skidded to a heavy stop, snarling as a cluster of Necrons with bloodied blades for fingers launched at him in unison. 

Flayed Ones, they were called. Bellerion’s eyes flashed with disgust under his helm. The most debased of Necrons, they wore the skins of their victims as if they were trying to hide the skeletal nature of their own bodies. Surely enough, as Bellerion finally closed the distance, he could see what were clearly the shredded remains of blood thrall robes hanging from their crooked frames. Then the smell of open wounds hit him like a bolt round. 

Bellerion was surprisingly resistant to the Thirst, his nature edging more towards the demure than most would consider appropriate for a Blood Angel, but this? This angered him. Letting off a sound that was so much like Damos’s own roar of fury, he lowed his head and powered up the powerful drill attached this his right vambrace. 

A narthecium was never meant to be used as a weapon, but it can and will be used by those who could care less. In this case, Bellerion had no sense of it. He pulled his fist back and jammed the whirling drill into the head of the first Flayed One he crashed into. The scream of the diamond tipped tool buzzing through the skull of the enemy caused his gums to itch and his Angel’s Teeth to slide free with a bone aching crunch. From then on it was easy to lose himself, grabbing knifelike limbs and tearing them free or, when he was close enough, head butting metallic heads aside. 

Five seconds ticked by and Bellerion’s original roar had not ended, yet he had managed to tear all five Necrons from Incariel’s battle plate. Incariel shook himself free and stared through the skull’s helm lenses as a normally docile battle brother of the old breed very literally crushed his attackers with what amounted to his bare hands and a drill meant for surgical use. 

He waited. 

At his feet the defeated Flayed Ones began to dissipate, leaving behind the shredded scarps of skin and cloth that had previously belonged to their thralls. 

Ten seconds ticked by and Bellerion stood there, gingerly fingering through the remains of one robe still in his hands. Perhaps he might have recognized who it had belonged to on smell alone. Incariel had no idea. He was about to call out the sanguinary priest’s name, but the other Blood Angel had already seemed to calm down, his breathing labored but regulated. 

“Are you alright, brother?” Asked Bellerion. 

“…I was about to ask you the same.” Incariel rose, a full head higher than the other, and gently shook the other’s left pauldron. “Are you sanguine?”

“I am.” Bellerion replied immediately. 

More than a little stunned, Incariel sucked in a breath and nodded down the hall. Agorix squad had already made their way past them and were fighting a fresh scrum in the next chamber. “We need to head to the strategium.”

“Agreed.”

The rest of the fighting was precise and quick once Servatus caught up with them and sergeant Agorix. Lupum squad, which had raced ahead on orders from lord Rhacelus, vanished in a column of smoke and dust keeping the way to the bridge clear. Bellerion took it all in with a taciturn sense of grief. He did not know a single member of that squad, nor sergeant Lupum himself, but the inability to go and do his duty irked him. No doubt medicae thralls would be picking through the rubble once the battle cleared, or even Damos himself if the old hound managed to find the scholiast and Patience, but it pained the younger Blood Angel to leave dead brothers behind. 

None the less he knew what his current orders were and by the time they reached the bridge he knew that stopping to tend to the dead would have been a vast waste of time. More dead Blood Angels laid in small piles along the walkways stretching between the command dais and the tiered levels leading down several flights to the strategium itself, seated at the very bottom of the blood drop shaped depression. Each level was utterly crowded with the bodies of both thrall and Blood Angels alike, some to the point where only close inspection would differentiate them to any degree. 

Incariel paused at his left shoulder, noticing that Bellerion was staring, but the sanguinary priest only gave the chaplain the verbal equivalent of a wink. He still felt the stirrings of the Thirst, but he had his own methods of keeping it controlled. He would not unleash it here in front of Servatus or the surviving humans. 

The chaplain never got the chance to ask about it either, because new ranks of Necron warriors marched through the tumult towards them. Bellerion was about to grab for his rarely used gladius but Incariel had already given voice to fury again and was amongst them with startling speed. 

“Go!” He barked.

Bellerion nodded and joined Servatus, hopping over the railways separating each tier from the one below. Down they went, dodging gauss beams and skittering around entangled armsmen and blood thralls as they tried to douse fires or get an essential module working again. Each level they bounded down the situation was worse until they were forced to slow due to the sheer amount of blood slicking the deck at their boots. They had just crashed down to the very bottom tier when the smoke that constantly clawed at the ceiling of damask banners and gilded frescos seemed to…coalesce. 

“…where are lords Mephiston and Rhacelus?” Bellerion was just beginning to ask when Servatus pointed at the shape forming in the heart of the smoke. Two vast, tenebrous wings spread out, engulfing the whole of the upper command dais for a moment as a cold feeling gripped Servatus’s guts. Bellerion, by contrast, was nodding and waving the remaining blood thralls away from a sparking, spitting module they had stopped trying to put out long enough to stare. 

Emerging from the fire licked gloom, Servatus suddenly knew why Bellerion was not wary, but the ice sliding through his veins stayed even as lord Mephiston and Rhacelus finally entered the fray. Both librarians literally floated down to the strategium, seemingly immune to the collective fire launched at them before they touched down together in front of him and Bellerion. All of the thralls who had been warned away bowed, but Mephiston ignored them. 

Ignoring Servatus as well, the chief librarian waved his hand above the damaged module and immediately the caustic smoke and flames stopped, the screen flickering to life as if the librarian had breathed the Omnissiah right back into it. The sanguinary priest was still clearing thralls from the strategium when Mephiston turned his attention to Rhacelus.

Immediately they went to work after a snatch of conversation Servatus could not hear, watching warily as they scratched a series of complex circles into the decking, prompting tongues of pale fire to spring up where the thralls had previously been. Seemingly as satisfied as Mephiston was, Bellerion did not even wince as threads of etheric light danced across the metal and out into the choking air, forming patterns that the lieutenant could not even guess the meaning to. He soon put that out of his mind, however, as the Necron warriors made their way down the tiers towards them once more. Until they suddenly weren’t. 

Lord Mephiston was speaking to a xenos commander through a vox hailer mounted just below the occulus. There was no visual and Servatus found himself thankful for that. A Necron lord calling himself Suphys if he heard correctly. The whole of the battle had stopped as if listening in. For a moment Servatus shared a look with the priest, as if trying to wordlessly ask for an explanation, but Bellerion only nodded, his helm lenses fixed on the vox emitter conveying lord Suphys’s voice. Servatus did not care to hear it. It was accented and inhuman in a way that made him even more uncomfortable than the chief librarian did. He had no idea how Bellerion could be bothered with their conversation, or why Mephiston was even trying to speak to the Necron in the first place. 

But, as the exchange drew on, he could hear the brother priest…chuckling. This time he was given an answer. “Lord Mephiston has hobbled them with their own bureaucracy.” He was still chuckling, indeed almost laughing, as he walked over to Servatus and gently slapped him on the pauldron.

——— 

Then you were suddenly aware again. Except you were no longer in the chapel, but in the apothecarium. You knew this only because you remembered being in here before and that memory seemed as if it were but a prequel to this current scene. Like your memories had gone liquid inside of your brain pan and started to run together like wax. 

In truth, it had been half an hour since Damos carried you and Patience from the chapel. You lost that much time. This time you did visibly panic, prompting a thrall you did not know to amble up to your bed, looking worried. 

“Wh-where’s Patience? Vigilance? Anyone?” You found yourself asking, purposefully interrupting the man before he could say anything. 

For a moment you managed to confuse him instead, his fingers hovering above a series of valves that controlled the IV snaking into your arteries. His lips pulled into a tight line, turning away to the values. “Lord Damos will be here shortly.”

“That’s…that’s not what I asked.” You breathed. You felt a rush of what you figured were mild sedatives, meant to keep you from frying your brain out of panic. It worked. You body had clenched up so much it ached as if you were a day out from hard labor. 

The thrall vanished soon after and Damos ducked into the room behind him. The sanguinary priest was festooned with battle damage, splatters of blood and dust that clung to his armor in patches. You shook your head as you found yourself trying to remember what happened, but nothing came up. 

“Try to breathe.” He rumbled. “Slowly. I need you to tell me a few things.”

And so you did. He asked for your name. You were able to give him that. He asked for an age and your role. You gave him that too after a few moments. 

“What do you remember? How far back?”

This is where you seemed to be hitting the night. You remembered Mephiston but little else before or after that. Hands fiddling with the linen sheets, you held back on saying what Mephiston was and what he had been doing in the hull of the ship. You knew not to do that even with your mind such a mess. 

“I was with Mephiston and Rhacelus. The details just…aren’t there. I think I spoke with Antros before and Vigilance after, but…”

Damos’s face, previously passive in the way only an Astartes's could be, pinched in grief. “She is gone, scholiast.”

“…what?”

“Vigilance is dead. She was fleeing the Necrons. I…” He cut himself off, looking down. “I am sorry.”

Nonplussed, you looked him in the eyes. “Are you…sure? I don’t…throne, I don’t remember her being there in the chapel.”

“Scholiast? Yes, of course I’m sure. I saw her body…scholiast?” 

———

Damos gingerly rubbed either side of the scholiast’s head. Their eyes, so dull they seemed to be blind, stared off into nothing. What sentience they had flickered out soon after. Just as they had done in the chapel. They were lucid for barely a few minutes. He shook his head and continued to call out to them, but the lids of their eyes slowly drew shut, a curtain falling on a dark stage. 

“Damn it!”

Two of his oldest thralls peered into the room, knowing the voice of their frustrated master. They did not wait for orders, merely striding in to tend him and the possible patient. The first one, a woman who had literally been born in this very medicae hall, shook her head sympathetically, looking over the now sleeping scholiast. 

“Disassociation, my lord.” She said. “There is…not much that can be done but wait. Perhaps medication once they’re lucid again.”

He stayed still a moment, almost afraid to let go of the poor thrall. He couldn’t believe how out of it they’d become. And so quickly too. It activated an old, protective instinct of his. One that he normally only applied to his own thralls. And…and to Vigilance. He grunted, slowly unclenching his hand, letting the thrall’s head rest in the palm. 

“Likely post traumatic.” Muttered the other thrall, another woman just a few scant years short of the first. “I would suggest they get therapy as soon as possible too. Same with the other. Patience, I think their name was.” 

The first agreed, her left hand automatically going to the hand of the second. Both women were married to one another and worked in the same unit. Damos had known them since he was assigned to the ship, so many years ago. He trusted their advice and had never dared separate them.

“Is there anyone even available for that? Lord Mephiston will be in high anchor of the enemy’s home world in another half hour.” Damos grunted. 

Both wives looked to one another and then at Damos. “We will take of it, my lord. Worry not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to my friend Kin for brain storming with me and letting me use her characters. They are Damos, Bellerion and Elysmaldus. Another thanks to Lucreace who's going through an especially tough time this month and needs some love! 
> 
> Some extra notes! I am slowly but surely getting art commissioned for the fic and plan on having an official dossier posted with portraits once I finish and go through a massive reedit. Would any of the readers be interested in getting to see them posted as previews at the end of each chapter, or would you rather wait for the edits?
> 
> As usual, please leave a comment with your thoughts if you enjoyed the chapter! <3
> 
> Please wear a mask, wash your hands and be EXTRA safe this holiday season!

**Author's Note:**

> To provide some context for those who have read Devastation of Baal, Blood of Sanguinius and Revenant Crusade. This is set roughly a few decades (reader gets to choose the age of the character) after Devastation of Baal and directly references both that book and Blood of Sanguinius. However, Revenant Crusade has not happened yet. Antros and Rhacelus are indeed canon characters.
> 
> **Cover image by Vargorm Arts https://www.facebook.com/vargormart**
> 
> EDIT 2.0: Having read Darkness in the Blood I can safely say that this story most certainly conflicts with the events in that book. Mephiston is not yet a Primaris marine here but neither has the Revenant Crusade happened. Canonically however, Darkness of the Blood takes place only MONTHS after Devastation of Baal and presumably right AFTER Revenant Crusade! So all together very confusing. For the sake of this fic, assume that Mephiston left Baal decades later, taking Reader with him. In this case Revenant Crusade would be the next canon book to happen THEN Darkness in the Blood and finally City of Light.


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